Ties that Bind
by Burked
Summary: GSR When Cath is injured at a scene, the team finds out the true nature of family.


**Title:  **Ties That Bind

**Author:**  Burked

**Disclaimer:**  I intend no infringement.  The entity that really does own the rights to all things CSI may freely use anything of mine they want, as long as they let me use the characters in unpaid fanfiction.

**A/N:  **Thanks to Mossley for betaing, supporting, asking when I'm going to finish it, etc.   

Sara was walking back into the expansive glass-walled house as Catherine was walking out.  The were investigating an apparent double-suicide; a husband and wife, Louis and Rachel Sanderson, lay peacefully in an upstairs bedroom, wrapped lovingly in each other's arms.

"Guess money really can't buy you happiness," Sara said heavily as she passed Catherine.

"No, but I'd rather be rich and unhappy than poor and unhappy," Catherine snorted.

Sara heard two sharp cracks and wheeled around to see Catherine collapsing to the concrete porch.

Dragging the flaccid body back into the house by her arms, Sara Sidle then pulled her weapon from her holster with her right hand, and held the cell phone with her left as Catherine lay still on the cool tile floor of the foyer.  She quickly crossed back to the door and slammed it closed.

"9-1-1.  What's your emergency?"

"This is One-Charlie-Five reporting a 422 Officer Injured at our location.  Shots fired.  Officer down.   Requesting immediate backup and Rescue.  444 Officer Needs Immediate Assistance," she intoned as clearly as she could, considering no air would stay in her lungs when she heard another sharp crack.

"Ten-four, One-Charlie-Five.  Confirming officer needs immediate assistance.  Shots fired.  Are you out of the line of fire?" the dispatcher asked dispassionately.

"I don't know.  I don't know where the shots came from," Sara said, scanning the street through one of the windows that ran parallel to the door on both sides.

She saw a flash across the street and heard the sound of wood cracking, and then turned to see a new hole in the door, slivers of wood splayed inward.

"Last shot went through the door.  High-powered rifle," she said, more to herself than to the dispatcher.

"One-Charlie-Five, you are instructed to take cover and await police backup," the dispatcher said firmly.

"I'm trying!" Sara said, looking around the bottom floor of the house.  A contemporary style, it had a plethora of windows, ceiling to floor.  She could find cover upstairs, but there was no way for her to get Catherine up there, and she wasn't willing to leave her alone.

Spying a coat closet in the foyer, she dragged her colleague over to it, opening the door and shoving the limp body in as best she could; there wasn't room for two.

After a crack preceded another hole in the door, Sara murmured, "I've had about enough of this."  She dropped to the floor and inched up to the broad window in the living area, sitting with her back to the narrow expanse of wall next to the window.

On a count of three, she twisted herself around quickly to look out of the window, to be greeted with a shower of glass raining down on the top of her head.

"Shit!" she exhaled, shaking the glass from her hair, as she unconsciously raised her weapon.  Through the jagged hole in the partially shattered window she squeezed off three rounds in the direction of the next muzzle flash.

She was confused when the window reached out and touched her left shoulder.  But she didn't have time to ponder that impossibility as she fired off another three rounds in quick succession.

Her own gunfire sounded strangely muted, her ears ringing from the six shots she'd fired reverberating through the room.  The smell of burnt powder was stinging her nose, and some part of whatever was left of her rational mind was glad she was downstairs, away from the crime scene; she didn't want to contaminate it with glass and gunshot residue.

She twisted back to the wall and put the cell phone back to her face.  "Can I get a little help here?" she asked pointedly.

"Four units are responding to your location.  ETA is less than a minute, One-Charlie-Five.  Take cover and wait," she was instructed.

"There's no fucking cover to take!" she blurted out.  She crawled towards the coat closet, sitting with her back to the wall, next to Catherine's outstretched legs.

Within seconds Sara was aware of hearing sirens and the screeching of tires.  Loud, male voices shouted words she couldn't decipher.  Red and blue lights flashed through the windows, bringing a chuckle to her throat.  Add some trance music, and the living room and foyer would pass for a disco.  

A comfortable numbness settled over her like a nice, hot shower, draining the tension from her body.  _The cavalry is here.  Let's just hope they don't bust in and shoot me._

The door flew open and Sara instinctively flinched, expecting the worst, as she tried to lift her arms to cover her face.  She felt a strange sting in her left shoulder and winced when she saw the jagged glass sticking out.  Her first instinct was to quickly pull it out and throw it across the room, but she knew to let someone else do it so that they could stop the bleeding that would ensue.

She lowered her arm when no shots were forthcoming, and rolled her eyes open.  Through a blur she could see the open door, but nobody near it.  Blinking slowly, when she refocused there were two deputies, guns drawn, peeking around quickly from each side of the door.

"Help her," Sara said, limply casting her right hand towards the coat closet.  

Sliding along the wall, scanning the room, one deputy checked on the body attached to the legs that hung out the open closet door.  

"She's alive," he told his partner, then radioed in to dispatch to confirm that Rescue was en route.  "What about that one?" he asked, jerking his head towards Sara, his hands pressing down on the chest wounds that were seeping blood into a pool on the floor.

"Looks like she's not shot.  A good sized piece of glass is stuck into her shoulder though," the other deputy said. 

"Ow!  That smarts," Sara said, wincing as she tried to move.  She attempted to stand, but the deputy put a warm hand on her shoulder, shaking his head 'no'.

Pulling up her badge, he read, "Sara Sidle.  Hi, Sara," he said, smiling warmly.

"What's your name?" Sara asked, squinting at his nametag.  "Jeffrey Williamson," she read aloud.

"Call me 'Jeff'," he said, cocking his head, still smiling.  

"How come I've never seen you before, Jeff?" she asked the handsome deputy.

"Just moved here from Reno a few months ago.  They had me stuck on days for a while, but I finally got back on nights," he explained, glad to have a reason to stay and talk with the lithe brunette.  Someone needed to keep this one corralled until the EMTs arrived.  Jeff could tell that she was likely a spitfire.

The EMTs arrived and immediately began working on Catherine, pulling her gingerly from the closet.  Sara could hear the gurgling, sucking sound coming from the holes in Catherine's chest.

One EMT spoke swiftly but clearly over his radio to the emergency room doctor, telling him Catherine's vitals and condition.  The other took a pair of bandage scissors and cut up the front of Catherine's blouse to expose the two gaping holes, both of which were bleeding profusely, small droplets spurting up as she labored to breathe.

The EMT put two gauze pads covered in petroleum jelly over the chest wounds to attempt to seal the chest cavity to prevent lung collapse.

"That was one of her favorite blouses," Sara said, shaking her head.

"I'll buy her a new one," Brass said as he walked into the house, turning away from Catherine to kneel next to Sara.

"She's still gonna be pissed," Sara said, smiling through a grimace of worry, her head turned towards Catherine.

"She probably will," Brass agreed.  

"Wasn't my fault, Brass.  Honest," she said, drawing an "X" across her chest with her right hand.

"I know.  I have a radio, too," he said gruffly, scanning the room, noting the complete lack of suitable cover, other than the closet.  He watched, wrinkles gathering on his face, as the paramedics worked feverishly over Catherine, preparing her for transport. 

"Can you tell me what happened?" he asked Sara.  She was facing Catherine, unable to pull her eyes away.  Brass squatted and gently grasped her chin, turning her head towards him.  "Sara, tell me what happened," he repeated, this time more forcefully.

Sara recounted what little she knew.  Feeling her head clear a bit, she struggled to stand up.  She rolled over onto her hands and knees, then tried to get her feet up under herself.

"Whoa!  Whoa!  Where do you think you're going?" Brass squawked, putting a hand on her good shoulder to keep her from standing up.

"I'm going to show you where the shooter was standing.  Might be shell casings.  I shot back, so there's even a chance we might find blood, though I don't know if I hit him."

"You're not going anywhere until you're patched up.  I have eight deputies out there looking for him and for evidence.  If they don't find them, we can look later.  They aren't going to evaporate," he assured her.

"They're going to mess up our crime scene," she moaned, watching them mill around outside through the open door.

"God, you've been around Grissom too long.  You're starting to sound just like him," Brass mumbled.

"Thanks," Sara retorted, smirking.  Her face suddenly turned serious.  "Has anyone told him yet?" she asked anxiously.  "I don't care what he pretends, he's gonna be a basket case.  They've been friends forever."

"I know," Brass nodded.  "And he'll be worried about you too, you know.  I was just about to call him.  Do you want to tell him?"

"I'll do it.  But stay here, will you?" Sara replied.  "He'd probably rather talk to you."

Brass nodded as she picked her cell phone up from the floor.  Taking a deep breath to try to calm herself, she hit the speed dial and waited through two rings.

"Grissom," he answered mechanically.

"Uh, Grissom, this is Sara Sidle," she said, as though this was the first time she had ever called him.

"Yes, I recognize your voice," he shot back teasingly.

"There's been a ... thing ... an accident.  No, I mean an incident.  Yeah, incident."

"Sara, what are you talking about?  What happened?" Grissom asked, becoming deadly serious.

"Someone shot at us.  Someone shot Catherine."

"Is she ...?" he began, swallowing.

"She's alive.  But they got her twice in the chest.  The EMTs are here now, and Brass is here.  Here, I'll let you talk to him," she said, pulling the phone from her ear.

"Wait, Sara!" Grissom shouted.  

She thought she heard her name and put the phone back to her head. 

"Did you call me, Grissom?" she asked.

"Yes, I did.  Are you okay?" he asked in a hushed but almost desperate tone.

"Sure.  I'm fine."

"You are not," Brass said, taking the phone from her.

"Grissom, this is Brass.  She's got a dagger-sized hunk of glass sticking out of her left shoulder in front.  A few inches south and she'd be history," he huffed, glaring at her.

"Oh my God, Brass!  What the hell happened there?"

"From what Sara told me and what I can piece together, a sniper was across the street.  He fired two initial rounds that hit Catherine.  Sara dragged her inside.  The deputy at the door was shot with a third bullet.  Sara engaged the perpetrator in a gun battle until shortly before backup arrived.  I see six casings next to the window.  There's almost no cover on the bottom floor where they were – just windows, and one shattered, which is the apparent source of Sara's wound," he recounted.

"It was just a double-suicide!" Grissom said.  Brass could imagine him, face pinched into a grimace, running his hand through his hair in frustration.  Brass could tell by his breathy speech that he was walking fast, most likely to his SUV.

"Maybe.  Maybe not," Brass said.  "Look, this place is now two crime scenes, and it's already becoming a zoo.  You better get some bodies down here quick if you want to salvage anything," Brass warned.

"Get everyone's names, Brass," Grissom warned.  "We're going to need shoeprints from them and we'll retrieve fingerprints from the files.  We need to know who to exclude."

"Yes, Gil.  I've done this all before," Brass said.  "And I used to be at least peripherally associated with criminalistics, you know."

"Sorry.  I guess I'm just ..."

"Worried?  Yeah.  Sara knew you'd be upset about Catherine.  She's pretty worried about you," Brass said, as he walked outside.  "Funny, huh?  She got shot at several times and stabbed with a broken window, and she's worried about how you'll take Catherine being hurt."

"I _am _worried about Catherine, but that doesn't preclude me from being concerned about Sara as well," Grissom said in frustration.  "I'm concerned with all of my employees."

"I wonder why she would assume you wouldn't be," Brass said with a hint of irritation in his voice.

"She's probably in shock.  You know how Sara always denies she has a problem," Grissom answered testily.

"She's not the only one," Brass murmured.

"I don't have time for this conversation, Jim," Grissom railed.

"How long 'til you get here?" Brass asked, changing the subject.

"Less than five minutes," Grissom answered.

"Good.  Catherine will probably be on her way to the hospital by then, but they haven't even started on Sara yet.  She's pretty rattled.  Could probably use a friend."

"I'm not coming there as her friend, Brass.  I'm coming there as the Supervisor of Criminalistics.  I have a job to do, just like you do."

"Sure, Gil.  You're right.  Besides, it looks like someone else is volunteering for the job," Brass said, looking back into the house to watch Deputy Williamson squatting next to Sara, his muscular arms resting on his knees, talking animatedly with her.  He pushed the 'end' button on the phone and handed it back to Sara, who looked at him briefly, then turned back to Williamson.

"Deputy, don't you have anything official you could be doing at these crime scenes?" Brass asked authoritatively.

"Uh, yes sir," Williamson answered, flushing slightly.  He shot a guilty smile at Sara and stood up.  As he walked towards the door, he stopped and turned abruptly.  

"Sara," he called, getting her attention.  "Can I call you?  You know, to talk or to go out or something?" he asked hopefully.

"Sure, why not?" she answered, shrugging, but smiling.

The deputy grinned and winked at her before catching Brass's scowl and hurrying out to the search going on across the street.

"And they say grocery stores are a good place to meet people," Sara said.  "I always seem to meet guys at crime scenes."

"Yeah, and look how well it always works out," Brass said, immediately sorry he'd said that aloud.  He looked at her hurt expression and winced.  "I'm sorry, Sara.  I shouldn't have said that."

"It's all right, Brass," she said.  "Maybe this time'll be different."  _You know what they say.  'Third time's the charm':  Grissom, Hank, and now Jeff._

"Maybe you're right, Sara," he said, wishing Grissom would hurry.  His attempts at diverting Sara's attention as they wheeled Catherine from the house were not going well.

The black SUV bearing Gil Grissom arrived just as they were putting Catherine's unmoving body into the MICU vehicle.  He was startled as they slammed the doors shut and raced off for the hospital.  His emotions told him that he should go with his friend of 15 years to the hospital, but his mind told him that he could do more for her here than he could there.

Brass gratefully took his leave of Sara when he saw Grissom enter the house.  Passing him at the door, Brass leaned in, saying, "I know you're here as a CSI, but take a second and be a friend first."  He patted Grissom once on the shoulder before joining his troops outside.

Grissom approached Sara slowly, allowing his mind a moment to put everything into context.  Paramedics were attending to her, obscuring most of his view.  The sight of two EMTs hovering over her supine form sent a shockwave through him.

He slowly made his way around the trio, never taking his eyes from her, until he could see her face.  He winced himself as he saw her react to the pain of the removal of the glass shard from her shoulder.

"Hey," he said gently, distracting her from the EMTs cutting away the top corner of her shirt to clean and bandage her wound.

"Hey, Grissom," she said, forcing a smile.

"You okay?" he asked, knowing she wasn't that seriously wounded, but in pain nonetheless.

"Sure.  Just a scratch," she answered gamely.

"A two- or three-inch deep scratch," one of the EMTs joked.  "Good thing it was up above the lung, or you'd be going to the hospital for a few days, instead of going to the ER for stitches."

"I don't need stitches," Sara said, trying to sit up.

Kneeling down near her head, Grissom smiled and shook his head.  "Sara, behave," he chided.  "Go get your stitches, go home and kick back for the rest of the day.  If you do that, I'll let you come to work next shift, as long as the doctor releases you to work.  If you don't, I won't," he threatened.

Sara rolled her eyes and sighed, but nodded to the EMTs that she'd go with them.  "I'll go, but on one condition."

"What's that?" the other EMT asked.

"I walk to the ambulance," she said firmly, turning to glare defiantly at Grissom.

"Okay," the EMTs agreed, laughing.

She turned towards her good arm, unsteadily pushing herself up.  As one of the paramedics reached out to help her, she pulled away.  

"I can do it myself," she said.

"May I escort you to your ride?" Grissom asked in mock-chivalry as she stood, a bit wobbly.

Sara regarded him for a moment, then decided to allow him to walk her to the ambulance rather than risk appearing foolish if she stumbled or weaved on her way to the MICU.  He took her elbow and slowly ambled towards the awaiting ambulance as the paramedics gathered their gear.

Any other time, she would have allowed herself the guilty pleasure of enjoying his touch.  She would have imagined he attached some meaning, some significance, to the meeting of their skin.  But this morning, she knew he was only helping her to the ambulance, like any other person would.

As they broached the door to the house, Sara intently scanned the area across the street.

"What are you looking for?" Grissom asked.

"Where he was hiding.  Here, let's go over this direction a little, so we can line up with my position at the window," she said, pulling him with her.

"Sara, you need to get in the ambulance," Grissom told her.  "I'll take care of the crime scene."

"How will you know where the crime scene is, if I don't tell you?" she asked.  

She took a moment and closed her eyes, reliving the brief exchange of gunfire with the shooter, then her eyes sprang open, quickly scanning the area.  

"Over there," she pointed.  "Between those two houses.  I think in the bushes next to the house to the east."

"Okay, I'll look there in a minute.  But let's get you to the hospital first," Grissom said.

Sara begrudgingly agreed to get into the ambulance, sitting on the edge of the gurney, waiting for the EMTs to return.  

"I'll call you at home later," Grissom said, surprising Sara.  "To see how you're doing."

"Sure," she shrugged.

He walked towards the other side of the street, turning back to look at her a moment.  He was worried that two injuries in just a few months time would have more psychological impact than she probably suspected.

He was surprised to see a wide grin spread across her face as she hopped back down out of the ambulance.  Grissom froze, as his eyes triangulated to see what she was grinning at.  A handsome, young deputy was approaching her, with a matching smile on his face.

"So, you trying to get away without giving me your number?" he asked, his deep voice carrying easily to Grissom.

"You could always call the Crime Lab," she answered coyly, her head tilting slightly to the side.

"I could," he nodded.  "But you could give me your home phone number or cell phone number.  You probably aren't in the lab that much."

"You've got a point there," she agreed.  "But I don't give my number out to just anybody," she said flirtatiously.

"I'm not just anybody," he said, his hand clutching his heart as though her words had speared him.

Grissom wasn't sure what to think.  He'd never seen the deputy around before, but she seemed to know him.  He was definitely hitting on her, but Grissom couldn't tell without seeing her face whether she was rebuffing him nicely or whether she was flirting, drawing the conversation out.

"Come on, you said I could call you, take you out," Jeff pleaded mirthfully.

Grissom's breath caught in his throat when he heard that Sara had already agreed to go out with the deputy.

"Did I?" she teased, raising an eyebrow and shifting her weight to one hip.

Unconsciously licking his lips, the deputy caught the new curvature her body evidenced.  "Yeah, you did," he said, almost absently as he was becoming more entranced by her.

"Well, I'm a woman of my word," she nodded.  She rattled off what Grissom recognized as her cell phone number.  The deputy quickly grabbed a marker from his pocket and scrawled the number across his inner forearm in indelible ink.

"You know that won't come off for days," she said, laughing.

"I don't care," he said.  He was reveling in the eye contact too much to even blink.  "When can I call you?"

"Whenever you feel big and bad enough to," she teased.

"Why don't I just save you some cell phone minutes and ask you out now?" he asked.

"I have unlimited minutes," she countered.

"That'll come in handy."

Grissom watched voyeuristically as the two stared silently at each other for a few seconds, then could stand to listen to it no more, turning to tend to his crime scene.  He knew that he had no reason to feel like he had any claim to Sara, but some part of him wished she had waited for him just a little while longer.

Unwilling to admit even to himself that it was his own inability to move forward that angered him, he instead allowed himself to gradually become livid that Sara was so insensitive to Catherine's plight that she would flirt as though nothing had happened here.

"How about dinner tonight, say about six?" Sara suggested.  

"How about breakfast in a few hours?" he countered.  "I could call you when I get off.  You should be home from the hospital by then."

"You know, there's an off chance that I might want to sleep," she demurred.

"You can sleep after," he said, blatant eroticism coloring his voice.

"After what?" she asked, her eyes wide open, her eyebrows almost touching her hairline.

"Just ... after," he said, shrugging.

"I don't think so," she said, shaking her head.  "I think I'll be up for a casual dinner, but I'm too tired for anything before then."

"Okay, you win.  Six it is.  Where do you want to go eat?"

"Oh, I guess I should tell you, I'm a vegetarian, so burger joints or steakhouses are out."

"Hmmm.  So you don't eat meat," he said salaciously.  "Is that healthy?  How do you get any protein?"

"There are plenty of other ways to get protein," she said.

"So there are," Jeff replied, grinning.  "So there are.  I'll see you at six," he said, holding out his hand as though to shake hands.

Sara thought it curious, but held her hand out as well.  He surprised her by bringing it swiftly to his lips, kissing it tenderly.

The EMTs made their appearance, stowing their gear.  Though there were steps up to the back of the MICU, Jeff held her gingerly at the waist as she climbed back in, waving to her as the paramedics closed the doors.

After the ambulance pulled away and some semblance of quiet settled on the street, Grissom could plainly hear a triumphant, "Yes!"  He turned his head to see the young deputy swagger back to the house, occasionally pumping his fists gleefully, obviously pleased with his good fortune to be called to that particular scene.  

Who would have thought that responding to an officer down call would put him in a position to meet the most interesting woman he'd come across since hitting Vegas?

* * * * *

Sara was entering the building from the other side, just as Grissom was arriving for work.  She was looking much better than the previous night.  Other than carrying her left arm a little stiffly, she otherwise didn't look worse for the experience.  Grissom was somber, but Sara seemed jovial.

"You must have stayed pretty busy this morning," she called out as she approached.  

Grissom didn't answer audibly, but pursed his lips and shrugged.

"You said you'd call," she reminded him, almost as an afterthought.

"I was busy," he said, opening the door, moving back to let her through at the last minute.

"That's what I meant ... busy," she said, looking at him curiously.  "Did you see Catherine?"

"No.  I went this morning, but she was in ICU, and it wasn't visiting hours."

"I lucked out.  I called, and they told me when the visiting times were.  Her mother had been in earlier, but was picking up Lindsey from school during the afternoon visiting period.  So, I got to see her."

"Damn!  I forgot all about Lindsey!" Grissom said, stopping in the middle of the hall and literally slapping his forehead.

"I took care of it," Sara said.  "I called Catherine's mother and told her what was going on.  She was pretty upset, as you can imagine.  I told her Lindsey could stay with me, but she said she could handle it.  Told her to give one of us a call if she needed a break," Sara told him.

"Oh, okay.  Thanks," Grissom mumbled, starting back down the hall, appearing to Sara like he was trying to outpace her.

"Is something wrong, Grissom?" Sara asked, as soon as he practically bolted into his office.

"Yes.  I have a CSI who happens to be a friend of mine lying in ICU with two gunshot wounds to her chest," he said tersely.

"I know.  I was there," Sara countered softly.  "I know you've known her the longest, but we all feel it."

Grissom looked at her, and she could swear that his visage was accusing her of something, but she didn't know what.  She wondered if he thought it was her fault that Catherine was shot.

"I didn't cause this," she said preemptively.

"I didn't say you did," Grissom answered dismissively, taking a file from his inbox and flipping it open almost violently.

"Then why are you mad at me?" Sara asked, moving another step into his office.

Grissom only looked up with his eyes, over his reading glasses.  "I have a lot to do before we get started, so if you'll excuse me ..."

"Yeah ... okay ... whatever," Sara said, holding both hands in the air defensively.  "Didn't mean to bother you.  I forgot that I'm only fit to talk to decently for a few minutes after I get hurt," she said, turning abruptly and leaving his office like a shot.

If they weren't already short-handed, Sara would have been tempted to walk out and go home, but she wasn't willing to subject Warrick and Nick to the backlash of Grissom's ire.  Instead, she went into the locker room to wait for their arrival.  

While she was there, she peeled the pictures from the inside of her locker, tucking the cellophane tape around to the back.  After spending a few minutes looking at them, recalling every detail about the time and place the pictures were taken, she slid them into her purse.  They didn't belong here;  the lab didn't seem like home anymore.

Sitting alone, she shook herself back to reality.  She'd had a nice dinner with Jeff, and she was disappointed that she had let Grissom ruin her evening.  The two were like night and day in so many ways.  

And, unlike Hank, Jeff was intelligent and fairly well-read.  He knew more about literature than Sara ever did, but she teased him that she would be willing to pit her physics knowledge against his any day.

Rather than see them as mismatched, Jeff made a comment about how their different interests made them complementary, which Sara found to be a refreshing take.  He didn't seem at all uncomfortable about her superior math and science knowledge, though they were traditionally male domains.

"Well, maybe I'm not a traditional male," he answered, laughing, when she mentioned that to him.

"I can see that," she said, smiling.  "It's a good thing, because I'm hardly a traditional female."

"I can see that, too.  And I like what I see," he said, winking playfully at her.

Sara blushed slightly and looked down at her plate.  It had been a long time since a man paid her a compliment, especially a straightforward one, out in public, unashamed of his attraction to her.  She found it to be more alluring than she would have imagined.

She tried to ground herself by thinking that Hank had been open in the beginning, but then she recalled their first date.  He spent most of the time talking about himself and his job, implying that it was more heroic than working with dead people.

At the other extreme was Jeff.  Though he answered all of her questions without hesitation, he constantly steered the conversation back to her.  When he could see that she was hesitant to talk about her past and her personal life other than in the most generic terms, he asked her about her work, sensing that she would feel comfortable talking about that.

Sitting alone in the near-darkness of the locker room, Sara held out both of her hands.  In her mind's eye, she saw Jeff in one hand.  He made her feel desired, he made her laugh, and he made her feel alive.  But she barely knew him, and though she was attracted to him, she didn't love him, at least not yet.

On the other hand was Grissom.  He didn't acknowledge any attraction, he didn't want to go out with her, and he was barely civil.  He made her angry and hurt more often than not.  More mornings than she cared to remember, she felt dead when she left the lab, or at least dead to him.  But, for some reason that she couldn't fathom, she loved him.

She bobbled her two hands up and down, alternately, weighing the two against each other.  She had to admit that, as far as the one day went, Grissom's side of the scale was beginning to lose ballast.  Even though she had only known Jeff a few hours, he had treated her with far more respect than Grissom had in years, and that meant a lot to her.  

_Not that he cares in the slightest, but if I decide to keep seeing Jeff, I should tell Grissom that his time is up.  Let him know that I'm moving on.  He'll no doubt be relieved.  Maybe he'll even start talking to me again.  If I'm lucky, maybe he'll even partner with me sometime._

_One thing I'm not going to do is chase after any man anymore.  If Jeff wants to see me, he can call.  I'm not going to make a fool of myself again, like I did with Grissom and like I did with Hank.  I pushed it with both of them, and I got what I deserved.  No more.  I'm just going to be myself, and let them come after me if they want me._

Unbidden thoughts of Greg shot into Sara's mind, and she chuckled, acknowledging that he'd done just that, consistently.  And she had rebuffed him, consistently.  Not that she was attracted to him, but she could have gone out with him nonetheless, if she hadn't been hung up on Grissom.  

If the lab explosion and the shoot-out taught her anything, it was that life is unpredictable and meant to be lived every moment.  She wasn't denying herself anything anymore, as long as it was legal, ethical and vegetarian.

Her mood lifting, she shoved her purse into her locker, deciding to wait for the boys in the break room.  She wasn't afraid of running into Grissom anymore.  

* * * * *

"Please tell me you aren't drinking that swill," Greg said, hanging partway into the break room, pointing accusingly at the coffee maker.

"It's the only coffee we've got," Sara answered him.

"Au contraire, madame," he said, curling his fingers slowly and theatrically in, bidding her to follow him.

The two playfully stole down the hall to the DNA/Chem lab, looking around conspiratorially.  Peering around for onlookers, Greg dipped down into a cabinet in his lab and pulled out a thermos, tucking it under his coat as he pulled her back to the break room.

"Greg!  You aren't supposed to have food or beverages in your lab!  You know that," Sara said, feigning indignation.

"That rule is for my own protection.  The thermos keeps it from being contaminated, and I'm willing to take the risk anyway.  Now, do you want some decent coffee or not?" he asked, unscrewing the cap and pouring himself a cup.

"Hit me," she said, sliding her now-empty cup across the counter to him.

Both uttered a sensual sigh of contentment as the warm, rich coffee oozed down their throats.

"That is so good," Sara purred.

"When something's this good, you've got to be willing to take a risk for it," Greg said, savoring another sip.

Sara looked at him thoughtfully, wishing Grissom felt the same way about risk and reward.

"Greg, have you talked to anybody about ... you know ... the accident?" Sara asked, lowering her voice and leaning in towards him.

"No, not really.  How about you?" he countered, looking up at her with more seriousness than she had ever seen on his face.

"No, same here.  Do you ever wish you could?"

"Sometimes.  But no one would understand," he said, looking into his half-full cup before taking another swig.

"I might," Sara said, shrugging.  Though she had barely been hurt, she was right there when it happened, seeing everything.

"I figured you wouldn't want to talk about it," he whispered, looking down.

"Well, not to other people.  But I wouldn't mind talking about it with you.  I'm glad you're okay now."

"Well, okay may be an overstatement, but I'm okay enough, I guess," he said a little wistfully.

"Hey, you want to get together away from here and talk about it?" Sara asked.

Taking a moment to think, a smile pulled at the corners of Greg's mouth.  He looked up with a mischievous grin and asked, "Can I pretend it's a date?"

"Why pretend?" she said, helping herself to another cup of Greg's coffee.

He stared blankly at her.  In three years, she had never even taken his offers of a date seriously, much less agreed to one.  He was waiting for the punch line that never came.

"You're serious?" he asked.

"Sure, why not?" she said, smiling.

"You'll go on a real, live date with me?  Like we go out to eat, or to the movies, or dancing, or a concert or something like that?" he asked, becoming more mystified by the moment.

"Yeah.  A real, live date," she laughed.  "But, if it's dinner ..." she began.

"Yeah, I know.  You're a vegetarian.  I've eaten with you guys a couple of times, you know.  I noticed you don't eat meat."

_He's eaten with us fewer times than I can count on two hands.  And I never mentioned it to him. ... But he noticed.  He noticed without me having to tell him.  How come after a year and at least 30 meals, I had to tell Grissom?  Criminalists are supposed to be observant.  But I guess that's only if you are interested in what you are observing._

Greg finally snapped back to reality after a brief sojourn in fantasyland.  "So, when are you free?"

"Well, if we go out before work, it doesn't really matter, does it?" she answered.

"Yeah, right.  I hadn't thought about that.  How about tomorrow?  There's an action movie at the five o'clock matinee that I was thinking of going to.  You like movies?" he asked.

"You bet.  I love movies.  But not chick flicks," she said, shaking her head.

"Looks like I'll have to get in touch with my feminine side on my own time," Greg joked.

"Give me a call about 4:00.  Now, you better blow before Grissom finds you in here," she warned.

"My shift starts when your shift does," Greg said bravely, leaning nonchalantly against the counter.  "And I don't see a sign that says 'Criminalists Only'."

When Nick and Warrick came in, both looking tired and somber, Greg decided it was time to leave, shooting Sara a smile and a wave as he left.

"Hey, guys," Sara greeted them, her own tone tempered to match their moods.

"Hey," Nick said, smiling at her, but with a sadness pulling at his eyes.

"I heard what you did," Warrick said, squinting at her, looking almost angry.

"What?" Sara asked, trying to think of anything she might have done to upset him.

"I heard that you pulled Cath inside the house when that dude was shooting at you guys, and hid her in the only cover available."

Sara just looked at him, biting slightly at the side of her lip.  She had tried not to remember how Catherine looked with the front of her shirt growing redder by the second.

"That was a very cool thing to do," Warrick said, smiling wanly.  

"She'd have done the same for me," Sara said, shrugging.

"Yeah, I think she would have.  I'd like to think that we'd all do the same thing," Nick said, nodding and looking at his two friends warmly.

"Well, maybe not all of us," Sara mumbled as Grissom entered the room.

Warrick and Nick both shot her a quick glance before looking towards Grissom as he took his seat.  Sara uncharacteristically had a notepad in front of her, and focused all her attention on it, for the first time in three years making notes of the assignment details.  She didn't want to be obvious that she wasn't going to make eye contact with Grissom.

While Grissom took a moment to look at something in the file, Warrick and Nick turned questioningly to each other, nodding almost imperceptibly in Sara's direction, asking each other a silent question, then slightly shrugging their answers.

Sara was thunderstruck when Grissom paired her with himself to continue to work the double-suicides, assigning Nick and Warrick to work the shooter.

When Grissom finished and left the room, Sara looked up for the first time since he'd arrived, assuring herself that he was long gone, then tore the page off the pad, wadded it up, and tossed it across the room at the trash can.  It hit the rim and bounced out.

"You need to work on that shot," Warrick teased.

"I have a feeling I'll be getting plenty of practice," she said, smiling insincerely, as she stood.

* * * * *

When Grissom arrived at the vehicle, Sara was already sitting in the passenger side, leaning against the door.  Her elbow was propped up in the window, and she rested her chin in the palm of her hand, staring blankly out at the parking lot.

"You don't want to drive?" Grissom asked, piling into the driver's seat.

"No," she said, not tersely, but not friendly.

"That's unusual," Grissom murmured as he started the SUV and backed out of the slot.

"Well, it's been an unusual day," she countered, just as listlessly.

"How's your shoulder?" Grissom asked with almost no emotion.

"I can do the work," Sara answered firmly.

"That wasn't my concern," Grissom shot back, then sighing to get control over his temper.

His short outburst caused Sara to look at him in shock for a moment, then she returned to peering out of the window at the buildings as they crept by.

"Why didn't you pair me with Nick?" she asked, seemingly out of the blue.

"What would be my rationale for that?" he asked, officiously.

"Well, normally you'd work with Catherine, but since she's not here, it would be more likely you'd work with Warrick.  He is, after all, your favorite of the younger CSIs.  Nick and I work well together, which stands to reason, since we've had so much practice at it.  So, I would have thought you'd put me with Nick," she explained.

"Would you prefer that?" Grissom asked.

"Yes," she answered honestly.  "Nick and I could finish the suicides, and you and Warrick could work the shooters.  Everyone would be a lot more comfortable."

"I don't make assignments based on comfort level," he countered.

"Then why do you work with Catherine all the time?" Sara asked, turning to see if he would answer honestly.

"I don't work with Catherine all the time.  I work with everybody," he answered.

"Bull," Sara murmured.

"To answer your question," Grissom began, "You and I will be working the suicides because you were already on the case, and I need to get involved from the starting point, which appears to be the suicides.  If I worked the shooter, I wouldn't have the whole picture."

"So you trust Warrick and Nick to give you all the information you'll need on the shooter to put the whole thing together, but you wouldn't trust me and Nick to do the same with the suicides?" she asked.

"I don't want to argue, Sara," Grissom said heavily, dropping the subject.

"You never want to argue.  Arguing is inherently a two-way street.  It would require you listening to me," she said, surprised at her own openness.

"I'm listening to you," Grissom said.

"Okay, okay.  If you're really listening to me ...  Okay.  If you're going to be mad at me, and not tell me why, and if you're going to continue to be disrespectful of me, then I don't want to work with you.  It's as simple as that."

"Was it respectful for you to be flirting shamelessly while Catherine was lying in an ambulance with two bullets in her?"

Sara allowed a disbelieving smile to spread across her face.  _So that's what this is all about.  He saw or heard me with Jeff.  He's got a lot of nerve being mad over that!_

"Maybe I was hallucinating, Grissom, but I could have sworn that I pulled her into the house and put her in the only cover I could find.  I could have left her there and gone upstairs to find my own cover, but I didn't.  I called for help and engaged the shooter to try to keep her safe.  I consider that respectful.  

"She was already on the way to the hospital when Jeff and I were talking, so I hardly consider it disrespectful.  But I could be wrong.  I'll discuss it with Catherine when she's feeling better.  If she thinks I was disrespectful, I'll apologize.  Unlike some people, I doubt she would expect me to put my life on hold because of her own issues."

Grissom shot her a quick glare, her meaning clear to him.  "It doesn't seem to me that you put your life on hold for anybody, so I couldn't imagine who or what you are referring to."

Sara just huffed, knowing it was probably pointless to argue.

"First Hank, now what's-his-name, the deputy ..."

"Jeff," she supplied.

"Whoever.  The point is, I don't see you spending much time unattached."

"I was unattached for a long time before I started dating Hank.  I was unattached for several months after he and I broke up.  It there some sort of time limit that I'm supposed to meet to qualify?"

"What do you want me to say, Sara?" Grissom asked, glad that they were finally entering the street where the crime scenes were.

"You're not going to say what I want you to say, so say anything you want to, or don't say anything at all if you'd prefer, which I'm sure you would," she mumbled.

Braking to a stop in front of the house, Grissom slammed the SUV into park, then turned abruptly to her.  "I'm not without feelings, you know."

"I know.  I really do.  And I did the best that I could.  I waited a long time.  Then I swallowed my pride and I asked you out.  You're the one who's always saying 'no', so why are you acting hurt?"

"Do I have to have a rational reason?" he asked, his face softening somewhat, no longer etched with anger.

"Grissom, I may have to settle for something different from what I wanted, but it's better than nothing, by a long shot."

"That's why you went out with the deputy?" he asked.

"And that's why I'm going out with Greg later today.  I've learned something from the explosion and this last incident:  I've got to live my life – every second of it.  I'm going to give myself the opportunity to see if I can find someone who'll treat me decently.  That's really all I'm asking."

"So you're not seeing this Jeff person exclusively?" Grissom asked, surprised at his own presumption.

"God, Grissom!  I just met him!  We've gone to dinner one time.  It's not like we're engaged or something.  We can date anyone else we want to."

"And you chose Greg?" Grissom asked incredulously.

"No, he chose me," Sara answered.  "I know it's hard for you to believe, but there are men in this world, apparently, who actually want to date me."

"It's not hard to believe," Grissom said, opening the door, but not stepping out yet.  "Not hard to believe at all," he said, turning in time to catch her eyes for the first time in hours.

"Don't try to make me feel bad about this, Grissom," Sara whispered.  "There's got to be someone out there who thinks I'm the right woman.  Since you're apparently not that guy, then let me go find him in peace.  Don't be mad at me."  

"So my time is up," Grissom stated, sighing deeply.

"I didn't say that," Sara answered, complete confused by the turnaround in his demeanor.  "I told you that I'm not dating anyone exclusively.  If you ever decide you want to go out, give me a call.  But don't expect me to quit seeing other people.  I'm not ever going to be that dependent on one person again, until I know they're serious."

"I don't share well," Grissom stated tersely.

"Don't think of it as sharing.  Think of it as competing," she said, winking and pushing herself from the SUV, walking resolutely up to the house.  Grissom stood in place a moment as she logged in at the door.

_Competing?  Would I have any chance of winning? Am I willing to put everything on the line, only to lose out to the deputy, or to Greg, or to God-knows-who?_

_But am I willing to let her go again without trying? I remember what that was like.  I don't know if I can do it again._

_Just a few more days – that's all I needed.  Just a few more days until my last follow-up with Dr. Roth, then I'd have that issue behind me.  I guess I could have told her that, but she's waited this long ... I just thought I'd have a few more days._

* * * * *

The house wasn't small, and it took the two of them all morning to process it.  Without saying as much, Grissom compromised with Sara by having them process separate areas.  In a fit of generosity, he allowed her to choose which areas she processed.

Looking at him as though he had sprouted another head, she immediately chose the bedroom where the couple had been found.  He agreed and set off downstairs.  After dusting the doors and windows, and not finding anything out of the ordinary, he walked over to the window in front, ostensibly to check on Nick and Warrick.

But instead he found himself looking at the floor by the window, littered with shards of glass and blood drops.  _Oh, God!  It's Sara's blood._  

He unconsciously shivered and decided to go see how the guys were doing across the street.  He hadn't paid attention before, but he was stopped cold by the smeared streaks of blood leading from the door to the closet.  _Catherine's blood, where Sara dragged her out of danger._

He closed his eyes for a moment, collecting himself.  He almost lost two of the people he loved the most in the world.  He realized that he still might lose one, still unconscious in the hospital.  Looking up the stairs, even though he couldn't see into the bedroom, he considered that she could soon be lost to him as well.

"Be right back," he said to the deputy guarding the scene, before he crossed the street to catch up with Nick and Warrick.  They had marked off a grid and were searching the ground on their hands and knees, moving their flashlights slowly, fanning through the blades of grass.

"Find anything?" Grissom asked, staying a bit back from their grid.

"Not yet," Nick answered hopefully.

"I don't think the shooter would risk shining a flashlight on the ground to find his casings, not with Sara shooting at him.  And he had to hear the cops coming.  They're here ... somewhere," Warrick elaborated.

"Find them," Grissom said sternly, looking unflinchingly first at Warrick, then turning to Nick, making sure they knew that failure wasn't an option.  When his point was made, he turned and walked quickly back to the house, unwilling to leave Sara alone for very long, even with a guard at the door.

"Man, if he thinks that he's the only one who's hurting here, he needs to rethink," Nick said lowly, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder to ensure that no one was within earshot.

Warrick grunted his agreement, suddenly stopping his movement.  His eyes squinted, and he dropped all the way to the ground, pulling up bits of grass to find what had caught his eye.

"What ya got there?" Nick asked, looking over hopefully.

"Damn!  Just a gum wrapper all wadded up.  All I saw was something shiny."

"Hey, man.  I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about Catherine," Nick offered.

"Why you tellin' me?" Warrick grunted.

"Well, 'cause, you know, 'cause I know you two are sorta close," Nick stammered, shrugging slightly every few words.

"What makes you think that?" Warrick asked challengingly.

"You people all act like the rest of us are blind or stupid or something.  Grissom likes Sara, and Sara likes Grissom.  David and Greg like Sara, too.  Catherine likes you, and you like Catherine.  It's kinda hard to miss."

"Yeah, well, I'd keep those opinions to myself, if I was you," Warrick muttered, his large fingers combing a few inches of grass at a time.

"Hey, dude, those aren't opinions.  They're observations.  There's a difference," Nick said, turning back to his own search.

"Got one!" Warrick said, pushing himself up with a shell casing in between his finger and thumb.  Turning it over gingerly, he noted, "Looks like a 30.06.  Typical deer rifle.  Must be thousands of them in Nevada alone."

"As Grissom likes to say, 'Luckily, we're only looking for one'," Nick said, grinning at Warrick.  The discovery energized them, and they went back to their search with renewed vigor.

* * * * *

Sara was trudging lifelessly down the stairs, her field kit in her right hand and the much lighter sack of evidence in her left.  She had just reached the bottom of the stairs when Grissom walked back in.  

"Find anything probative?" he asked, opening his kit to take swabs of the blood he already knew to be Sara's and Catherine's.

Sara stood transfixed for a moment, staring at the swipes of Catherine's blood across the tile of the foyer.  Her eyes tracked its path to the closet, then she bowed her head and shivered, trying to put the memories out of her mind.  A touch on her shoulder jarred her from her thoughts.

"You okay?" Grissom asked quietly, his voice more gentle than she had heard in a very long time.

"Yeah.  Just thinking about ... you know," she said weakly, trying to shrug away the emotions.

"You did good," Grissom said, smiling supportively, leaning down and looking up to catch her eyes.

"Why did this happen, Grissom?" she asked.

"I don't know.  Maybe someone doesn't want us finding out what happened here."

"Why didn't he shoot me?  I don't understand that.  I wasn't two feet from Catherine when she was shot.  And when I was at the window, returning fire, he could have shot me.  Why didn't he?"

"I don't know, but I'm glad he didn't," Grissom responded.

"It's like he was trying to kill Cath."

"He shot the deputy at the door, too."

"Maybe he had to.  But he barely wounded him – just enough to prevent him from doing anything about it."

"What're you saying?" Grissom asked, his curiosity piqued.

"I think that this doesn't have anything to do with the suicides upstairs.  I think the guy was trying to kill Catherine.  I really do.  She was the first one shot, and she was shot twice.  The deputy was barely wounded, and he didn't try very hard to kill me at all."

"Motive?"

"Who knows?  Someone she put away?  Ex-boyfriend?  Jealous wife?  I couldn't begin to guess," Sara said, wincing as she unthinkingly lifted her shoulders in an aborted shrug.

* * * * *

"Are you a relative, sir?" the nurse asked the older gentleman.

"Yes, I'm her father," he said with a decidedly western twang.

"You can visit her for fifteen minutes," the nurse said kindly, escorting the dapper gentleman into the room.

He leaned over the bed, frantically following the tubes and wires that seemed to be sprouting from her body.  Even the hand that he reached for had an IV running into it, the tape thankfully covering the entry site.  He moved to touch her at the fingers, seeing that they were the one area he could safely touch.

"Catherine?" he said quietly, his voice catching in his throat.  "Catherine, baby?"

He sniffed as he leaned over her, quickly swiping at a tear that threatened to escape the boundaries of his eye.  He absently ran a finger up and down the top of her index finger, the sadness, fear and anger starting to build in him.

"Mugs, I'm going to find the bastard that did this to you.  And when I do, I swear, I'll make him pay," he said through gritted teeth.  He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.  Pulling back slightly, he stroked her hair before whirling to leave the room, almost knocking over an older woman who was coming down the hall.

"Sam?" she gasped.

"Hello, Margaret," he said, surprised.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to see my baby," he said, his voice wavering through the practiced smile that seemed to perpetually cleave his face.  He had caught her by the arm when he ran into her, and he just noticed that he was still holding it.  He gave her a gentle squeeze before letting go.  "How you been, Margaret?"

"Fine, Sam," she answered, blushing slightly.  "Is she awake?" she asked hopefully.

"Naw.  But she's sleeping peacefully."

"Will you stay a minute?  I just want to go check on her, then I'll be right out."

"Sure.  I'll wait for you right out here.  We'll go get some coffee or something," he said kindly.

When she smiled at him from the door to the ICU, for a moment he didn't see a woman in her late 60s, but a girl in her 20s.  She had that same look that he had fallen in love with over 40 years ago.

She had gone in a little frightened, but hopeful.  However, when she came out, she was bent, and looked tired and old.  

"Margaret?" he said soothingly, taking her hand and wrapping an arm around her shoulders to lead her away from the ICU.

"Why, Sam?  Why did someone do this to our baby?" she asked, burying her face into his chest.

"I don't know, Margaret, but I'm going to do my damnedest to find out," he said sternly.  "And when I do, there's gonna be hell to pay."

He pulled the chair out like the gentleman he'd been raised to be, gently shoving it forward a bit once she had taken her seat.  He went to the counter and bought them two coffees.  Without conscious thought, he put one sugar in his, and two sugars and one cream in hers.

Moving around to the other side of the small bistro table, he set her cup in front of her before taking his seat.

"Umm, this is good," she hummed.  "How did you know how I liked it?" she asked, smiling questioningly at him.

"I just made it the same way I used to," he shrugged.  "If you want, I'll get you a fresh cup."

"No, this is perfect.  I'm just surprised, I guess, that you remembered how I liked it."

"Who's taking care of Catherine's little girl?" Sam asked.

"Lindsey.  I am," she answered, a bit tiredly.  "She's over at a neighbor's house.  Her granddaughter is visiting, too, so the two girls are playing."

Pulling out his wallet, Sam withdrew all the cash and shoved it towards Margaret.  "Here, this'll help you."

"I don't want your money.  I never have," Margaret said tensely, pushing it back towards him.

"I know that.  I mean to help take care of Lindsey.  Kids are expensive."

"Don't I know it," she murmured.

"I offered to help," he said, looking down at his coffee.  "I didn't want you to run off back to Montana."

"I had family there who could help."

"I wanted to help."

"I don't want to fight, Sam.  We've had this fight almost every time we've seen each other for over 40 years.  No one ever wins," she sighed.

"I'm sorry, Margaret.  I wish I could change the past, but I can't.  But I can try to change the present, and maybe the future.  You and I both know that you can't afford to take care of Lindsey for very long on Social Security.  Hell, I don't know how you keep body and soul together."

"I do all right," she demurred.

"I wish you'd let me help you."

"Don't need it."

"At least let me help my granddaughter.  I understand if you don't want the money for yourself.  But take it for her.  Buy her a pretty dress or something to make her feel better."

"Sam, you never could understand that money doesn't buy happiness," Margaret said sadly.

"No, Margaret, you're wrong.  Of all people, I know that.  I got one son who's dead and another in prison for murdering him.  And none of my money could stop that.  But it isn't the money's fault, it's the people.  One day, Catherine and Lindsey will inherit my money, and I know it won't do the same things to them, because they're good people, like you," he said, smiling.

"Sam, there's got to be 2000 dollars here," she gasped, splaying the bills to see that they were mostly hundreds.

"If you need or want any more, I can get it to you in 15 minutes, so don't hesitate to call," he said, writing his home number and cell phone number on the back of his business card.

"I'm afraid to walk around with this much money."

"I'll take you to the bank, if you want.  At least let me walk you to your car."

"I took the bus – car's in the shop.  When it rains, it pours," she said philosophically.

"Come on.  I've got my car waiting outside.  I'll take you home," he offered.

"That's nice of you, Sam.  But I'm fine taking the bus home."

"Damn, Margaret!  We know where Catherine gets her stubborn streak, now don't we?  I know I can't make everything up to you, but you don't have to stay mad at me forever, either."

"I'm not mad, Sam....  Okay, I'll ride with you," she agreed.  With their daughter lying unconscious in the hospital, she didn't have the will to keep fighting him, especially when she could see that he was hurting, too.

"Good girl!" he said with a broad grin.  He pulled her chair out and took her arm, walking her amiably to his waiting limousine, the chauffeur at the ready with the door open.

* * * * *

"Bullshit!" Nick exploded.

"Naw, man, it's true," Warrick said, shaking his head in his own disbelief.

"No way!"

"Way."

"Sara?"

"Yep."

"And Greg?"

"Yep."

"Nuh uh.  Didn't happen.  There's no way Sara went on a date with Greg."

"Uh huh.  She did.  One of the interns, Alonso, saw them together at a theater."

"You're bullshitting me!"

"May sound like it, but I'm not," Warrick vowed.

Nick's mouth was still hanging open when Sara walked in, more animated than she'd been in a while.

"Sara, is it true you went out with Greg?" Nick asked without preamble.

"Oh, hi to you, too, Nick," Sara said sarcastically as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

"Well?  Is it?"

"You writing my life story?" Sara asked, sitting down across from him, shooting daggers with her eyes despite her smile.

"Yeah.  I'm to the chapter where you lose your mind," he huffed.

"Hmmm.  Sounds like the story's finally about to get interesting," she said, sipping the hot coffee.

Warrick chuckled, his eyes bouncing between the two and his own cup of coffee.

Sara's pager went off, and she twisted it around to read the display.  She glanced up at the clock to see that there were still about 15 minutes until assignments were due to start, so she excused herself from the still-stunned pair.

"Hey, Greg, Long time no see," Sara laughed, as she breached the door to his lab.  "It's been, what, an hour?"

Looking around, Greg surreptitiously handed her a sweater. "You left this in my car," he said quietly.

"Why all the hush-hush?" she whispered back.

"I thought maybe you might not want anyone to know you've been in my car, much less on a date with me."

"Are you trying to hide it from someone here?  Is there some chick here that you've got the hots for?  I can keep a secret," she said quietly.

Greg cocked his head at her in utter bewilderment.  "Surely you jest!"

"Moi?  Hey, thanks again for dinner and the movie.  I had fun," she said, turning to leave.

"Wanna do it again sometime?" he asked hopefully.

"Sure.  Why not?" she smiled.  

Greg smiled back, but something gnawed at him, something about her smile.  He realized that it wasn't the smile he'd hoped for, the smile he'd seen her give someone else.  In his fantasies, he'd longed to have her smile at him the way she smiled at him, her eyes joining her lips, the cleft in her teeth showing unashamedly.

"Yeah, why not?" he parroted, as he pulled on his lab coat and began to set up his workstation for another night.

* * * * *

"What've we got?" Grissom asked the three silent CSIs.  The dynamic of the room weighed heavily on them, Catherine's absence leaving a void that was palpable.  She had increasingly become the obvious second-in-command to Grissom, often seeming to run their discussions as he sat and pondered.

"Nick and I found seven shell casings from a 30.06.  They're with Bobby," Warrick said succinctly.

"That's all of them," Sara mumbled.  "He shot seven times."

"And you shot six," Nick said, a soft smile of support turning up the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah, well, he got three hits and I apparently missed every time," she sighed.

"Three hits on two targets out in the open, in the light," Grissom added quickly.  "He was hidden in the dark."

"Muzzle flash," she said, as though that should have been the final condemning evidence.

"Was it stationary?" Warrick asked.

"No.  He moved," Sara answered.

All three of the men nodded, hoping she'd realize that a flash lasting less than a second, from the end of a rifle a few feet distant from the shooter, who was never in the same place twice, was hardly an easy target.

"I had a gun pointed at me a couple of times, but no one's ever shot at me," Nick said.  "How 'bout you?" he tossed to Warrick.

"Naw, man.  Never even had gun pointed at me," he answered, shaking his head.  "What about you, Gris?"

"No.  I've never been fired on, nor have I fired on anyone," he agreed.

"Thanks, guys," Sara mumbled, knowing they were trying to make her feel better.

"Look, Sara, if nothing else, you kept him pinned down so that he couldn't come in and do more damage.  You did good," Nick said, reaching across the table to lay a hand across hers.

Grissom was envious.  Why can Nick or Warrick smile at her, touch her, hug her, or even kiss her in public or in the lab?  He mentally ranted at the unfairness.  Rank is supposed to have its privileges;  but for Grissom, all too often he was reminded of the drawbacks of his position instead.  

"Anything new on the suicides?" Grissom asked, more to defuse the spiraling emotionality than to get an update.  Since he was on the case as well, he probably knew everything Sara knew.

"Nothing earth-shattering.  I went through their mail, e-mails, phone message, personal papers.  Looks like they lost all their investments.  Owed a fortune on the house.  Two new cars.  Guess they just couldn't face starting back over at scratch."

"See, that's the good thing about being broke.  I won't miss what I never had!" Nick teased.

"You can't be all that broke.  You just bought that flat-screen plasma TV that covers half your living room wall!" Warrick shot back.

"That's why I'm broke!" Nick countered, as though it should have been obvious.

The small amount of banter helped ease the somber mood that had gripped the room from the moment they first sat down.

Grissom would normally have testily urged them back onto the subject, but he knew that they needed to decompress a little, so he waited a beat before moving on.

"Sara had an interesting take on this, that I think we shouldn't ignore.  Maybe the shooter was targeting Catherine all along.  We've run out of leads from the house, so let's look into that."

"You want us to investigate Catherine?" Nick asked cautiously.

"She's a crime scene," Grissom stated flatly.  "She's a victim, like any other.  What would you do if it were someone you didn't know?"

"We'd go to their house and look for clues," Warrick nodded.

"Exactly," Grissom agreed.

"Warrick, you take Catherine's house.  Nick, you talk to her mother and her sister.  Sara, I think you and I should have a chat with Sam Braun."

"Why Braun?" Sara asked, not noticing Warrick looking away suddenly.

"He's ... um ... a close friend of the family," Grissom said carefully, drawing Warrick's eyes.

"Oh.  I knew she knew him, I just didn't know she knew him that well," Sara said.

"She's known him her whole life," Warrick stated without explanation.

"Oh, okay," Sara said uncertainly, her eyes darting to Nick, who shrugged slightly with his shoulders, but more with his eyes.

* * * * *

The house seemed to be sleeping, waiting for its occupants to come in and awaken it, bringing life into its hollow walls.

Warrick exhaled deeply as he scanned the living room, with its pictures of Lindsey on the walls and the usual detritus of children littering the floor.  There were a few toys, some coloring books, and a large box of crayons next to a clump of throw pillows on the floor in front of the television.

He could imagine Lindsey propped up on the pillows on her tummy, her legs bent up in the air, wiggling wildly as she laughed at cartoons.

He closed his eyes for a minute, gathering himself as he began to process the room.  Other than one portrait of Catherine, Eddie and Lindsey that was taken when she was just a baby, there were no pictures with anyone other than Lindsey.

He booted up her computer, but was stopped by a password request.  He would have to take it into the lab to attempt to bypass the password protection.

There was a stack of bills lying on the desk, and he flipped through them.  Almost all of them had a past due amount, he noticed.  Though he hadn't know her ex-husband Eddie very well, he had heard enough to assume that he hadn't bothered to carry life insurance, effectively ending his child support with his death.  Knowing Catherine, Warrick considered that she probably paid for his funeral as well.

He opened the top drawer, rooting through the usual desk contents – pens, pencils, paper.  Moving down to the pedestal file drawer, he pulled each file out, scanning them briefly before putting it back.  At the back, he found an unlabeled file that piqued his curiosity.  All it contained was a check made out to her for $250,000.00 signed by Sam Braun.  It was dated November 3, 2003.  

"What the hell?" Warrick asked aloud, wondering why Sam Braun would give her a check for that much money, and why it was hidden in a file, uncashed.

_Did he think he could pay her off?  No, he had already been cut loose by the time this check was cut.  Oh, this will not look good at all, Cat.  Not at all._

Warrick sighed as he slipped the check into a plastic evidence bag.  He wished he could ignore it, put it back where he found it.  Or, better yet, destroy it.  It would look like Braun paid her to get the evidence of the murder he committed kicked out of court.  

_Maybe that's why he gave it to her – to implicate her if she didn't give up on the murder investigation.  Even if she never cashed it, the fact that he wrote it casts some serious doubts on Cat's motives.  Shit.  That would be a harsh thing for a father to do to his own daughter.  But then, she did have him arrested for murder._

_Maybe it's not like that at all.  Maybe he's trying to make peace with her.  His type is all about money, so that's the first thing that comes to mind – throw money at your problems.  _

_Why did she even keep it?  Why didn't she tear it up, or throw it back in his face?  She didn't cash it, but she didn't get rid of it, either.  _

Now that he'd bagged the check, he knew he needed to take the bills as well.  She obviously had a money problem.  She might have gotten in deep with loan sharks – people who didn't take kindly to late payments.

The kitchen yielded no more evidence, nor did the bathroom or Lindsey's room.  He finally entered the last room, her bedroom.  It felt strange to be in here, though he had dreamed of it more than once.

He found that it took every ounce of his resolve to pull back the bedspread and top sheet, putting on amber goggles and turning on his ALS to scan the sheets for trace evidence.  He held his breath, hoping that he wouldn't see the bright white stain that would indicate semen.

Warrick exhaled gratefully when the only evidence picked up by the light was a few hairs, some medium-length and reddish-blonde, the others long and almost platinum blonde.  

_Lindsey must come in here sometimes to get in bed with her.  Maybe she had a bad dream.  Or maybe they just talk for a while, cuddled up in bed._

He bagged the hairs individually, placing the small bindles into his field kit with the small amount of evidence he'd collected from the desk.

Walking outside, he slowly scanned the entire perimeter of the house, looking for any evidence that someone might have been stalking her.  He found one whole shoe print and the front half of the other in some soft dirt under some bushes that ringed her house.  They were directly under one of the windows to Catherine's room.

Photographing them copiously, in case the casting ruined the prints, Warrick began to mix the plaster that he would pour into the depressions.  The soil in the garden was loose, making the job touchy:  if he weren't extremely careful, pouring too fast, he would wreck the prints.

He left them to harden as he circled the house once again, looking for more shoeprints, but also examining the windows for signs of attempted entry.  Nothing obvious sprang out at him, but he resolved to come back in the daylight to have another look around the exterior of the house.

The casts still had a slightly damp feel, but they were set enough to peel up from the dirt, and Warrick slid each one, soil still clinging to the underside, into separate evidence bags.  He lowered them carefully into his field kit, padding them as much as possible with empty evidence bags that he had sealed with air in them, forming plastic pillows.

_What have you gotten yourself into, Catherine?  And why didn't you come to me?  Maybe I could have helped.  I would have at least tried.  And even if I couldn't help, at least you wouldn't be facing it alone._

* * * * *

"Yes, I remember you, Dr. Grissom," Sam Braun said with a smile and a handshake.  "But I don't believe I've ever met this lovely young lady," he said with practiced charm.  "I think I'd remember that."

"My name is Sara Sidle," she said, smiling as she held her hand out to him.  Rather than shaking it, he surprised her by kissing it lightly.  She grinned at his chivalrous flirtations, but soon noticed that Grissom didn't seem as amused as she was.

"Mr. Braun, we're here to talk to you about the assault on Catherine Willows," Grissom began, waiting for Sara to sit down on Braun's couch before taking a seat next to her, not so far as to seem at odds with her, but not close enough to indicate any familiarity.

The perpetual smile that seemed to grace Braun's face stayed on his lips, but left his eyes, his face straining to remain impassive.

"How can I help?" he asked in a measured voice.

"Do you know of anyone who'd want to harm Catherine?" Grissom asked, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees.

"No.  I would think that you'd know that better than me, since it would likely be someone she came in contact with because of her job," he answered.

"Yes, but you have contacts that we don't have.  You know more about what happens in this town than we ever will," Sara said, smiling to ensure that he didn't take her statement as any implication of impropriety.

"I hear things from time to time," he said, nodding.

"Well, if you happen to hear anything about who might have had any involvement with Catherine's assault, please give one of us a call," Grissom said, handing him a business card.  Sara fished one of hers out of a pocket, receiving a mock-salacious grin from Braun.

"I'll keep my ear to the ground," he said, never actually promising to call.  He had already put the word out that he wanted to know who was responsible.  Half the gamblers in Vegas were already talking to everyone they knew, hoping to be the one to bring him information.  

He had let it be known that he was willing to renegotiate outstanding gambling debts in return.  Or pay a cash reward to those not in debt to him.  

The 'carrot' was impressive, but so was the 'stick'.  He also put out the word that he would be very angry with anyone he found out had withheld information from him.  Not only would they not be able to gamble in Vegas anymore, but the implication was that they would find it difficult to survive.

Grissom and Sara hadn't been gone from his office more than 30 minutes when the first call came in from one of his snitches.  Though the caller couldn't be sure that it had anything to do with Catherine's shooting, he'd seen Leonardo Paonessa in a restaurant a few nights ago.

Paonessa was a contract killer, known for his exhaustive planning and precision.  Rarely, if ever, were there complications or unintended collateral damage.  He planned his hits to accomplish the task he was being paid for – no more and no less.

It was well known in both law enforcement circles and the underground as well that if Paonessa had been hired to terminate you, then you might as well get your affairs in order.  He never quit until he was successful.  You could run; you could hide; but you could not survive.

Braun had a few other calls confirming that Paonessa was in Las Vegas, and that he'd arrived two weeks prior.  Braun knew that either Paonessa hadn't struck at his target yet, or had struck with temporarily failure.  Had he been successful, he would have left town already.

What he didn't know was why anyone would hire a high-priced contractor like Paonessa to kill his daughter.  But he had time, and he had money;  if it took the rest of his life and all of his wealth to find out who was behind the attack on Catherine, then he'd still consider it time and money well spent.

* * * * *

"I wish we'd known about the check when we went to talk to Braun," Sara said to Grissom as they sat in his office, the door closed to prevent anyone from overhearing their conversation.

"We could call him later this morning, if we can find his home phone number," Grissom said.

"Catherine's Rolodex?" Sara ventured.

"Worth a shot," Grissom said, as they left the office to search Catherine's workstation for Braun's number.

"This must be it," Sara said, pulling a card from the rotary file, handing it to Grissom.  It had the number at the Rampart, but below it was another number.  It didn't specify if it was a home phone or a cellular phone, but they felt sure that he could probably be reached at one or the other number.

"You ready to tell me what's going on?" Sara asked quietly. 

"What do you mean?" Grissom rejoined.

"What's the deal between Catherine and Braun anyway?  I'm not being nosy;  you know that.  But I need to know what you know about this case if you expect me to be any help."

"I'm not sure it's relevant to the case," Grissom said in a measured tone, his brows furrowed as if considering how much to tell her.

"Are you sure it's not relevant to the case?" she countered.

"No.  I'm not sure of that, either," he admitted.

"Then either tell me, or reassign me.  I don't like to work blind," she said firmly.

Grissom stared at her, not indicating whether he was angry at her demand, or whether he was deep in thought.

"Well?" she prodded.

"Sam Braun is Catherine's biological father," he finally answered.

"Oh.  I see," Sara said, stunned.  "She worked on the case that implicated her own father in a murder?"

"Yes.  We didn't have any way to know that at the time.  She didn't even know he was her father at the time.  She didn't find out until after he was arrested."

"How'd she find out?"

"She compared her DNA to some evidence in the case," he answered heavily.

"She did what?!" Sara almost shouted, causing Grissom to look around to ensure they hadn't been heard.

"Someone found out, and his lawyer got the evidence kicked, which is how he got released," Grissom continued.

"So she used the evidence for a personal motive, breaking the chain of custody, letting a killer go free?  What the hell was she thinking?"

"She was thinking that nobody would find out, evidently," Grissom answered.

"And now she's got a check for $250,000.  How does that look?" Sara huffed.

"It looks like an uncashed check to me," Grissom answered with annoyance.

"Doesn't matter what it looks like to us.  I learned one thing from your mentor, Phillip Gerard.  It's not what happened – it's what people can be made to believe happened."

"Not always.  After all, he failed," Grissom reminded her.

"Not entirely," she said cryptically.

Grissom's eyes narrowed to little more than slits as he quietly processed her statement, running through Gerard's assertions to determine which, if any, succeeded.

"Where were his lies successful?" he asked.

"He managed to convince you that I was in a relationship, even though I denied it.  You believed him over me," she said, the hurt still evident in her voice.

"He was evidently correct, considering that you and Hank dated for quite some time after that," Grissom said acidly.

"He wasn't correct at the time.  We had gone on a few casual dates, but didn't have a relationship going.  That didn't start until you ... well, until later," she said, changing her answer mid-sentence.

"What did you start to say?" Grissom asked.

"Nothing.  Never mind," she shrugged.  "The point is, he was lying, but you believed him."

"No. I want to know what you were going to say," Grissom pressed.  "You said, 'That didn't start until you'.  Until I what?"

"Until you stopped talking to me, working with me, having anything at all to do with me," she blurted out.

"So it was my fault that you started a relationship with Hank?" he asked incredulously.

"No.  That was my own mistake.  I just meant that I didn't seem to have anything to lose at that point."

"So are you saying that you wouldn't have formed a relationship, if I hadn't withdrawn?"

"I don't think so, but I don't know.  Maybe I would have.  Maybe I was just tired of being alone, of waiting on something that was never going to happen," she shrugged tiredly.

"So you gave up," he said.

"It's not like I hadn't been patient!" she fired back.

"That's not what I meant.  It wasn't an accusation, but a statement of fact.  It doesn't imply that you had no cause."

Sara breathed out forcefully.  "Okay, yeah, I gave up ... for a while.  But I tried again."

"Asking me out."

"Right.  Same outcome.  So, yeah, I gave up.  Banging my head into the same wall twice should be lesson enough for anybody.  Even me.  I admit I'm hard-headed, but even I get the message after a while."

"Maybe you got the wrong message.  Or, rather, maybe I sent the wrong message," Grissom corrected himself.

"For once, just once, why don't you just say what you mean?  That way, maybe I'll get it loud and clear," Sara said in frustration.

"I try.  But the words won't come," he said sadly.  

"Try again," she prodded.

"I don't know what to do."

"About 'this', right?"

"Yes."

"I can't decide that for you.  I can tell you what I want to do – I already have.  But it's your decision.  But this time, I'm not putting my life on hold while you make up your mind."

"I suppose it's moot at this point, anyway.  I can't compete with the younger men.  There's not much use in me trying.  I don't need the bruised ego again."

"So you're just giving up, before you even try?" Sara asking, her eyes wide open in disbelief.

"Yes," Grissom nodded.

His eyes:  they were the most expressive part of him, far more expressive than his words.  Being raised in a deaf household, speaking a manual language that necessarily was economical with words, much of his thoughts and feelings were conveyed by expression.  

Sara had learned to watch his eyes.  He often hid them from her, but when he didn't, she could read his innermost feelings as though they were fashioned of neon lights, splayed across the Strip.

She saw resignation, pain, embarrassment – and adoration.  

"No," she said, shaking her head.  "Don't give up."

"I can't compete," he repeated, frustration making him sound angry, though he only angry with himself.

"You don't have to.  No one can compete with you, if you'll just try."

"I have tried.  But I can't.  Don't make this any worse for me than it already is.  Just ... leave me alone."

"Are you sure you want to be alone?  Or do you think you have to be alone?" she whispered.

"Sara," Grissom started, pausing to think of how to answer.  "'Alone' isn't how I am;  it's what I am."

"So, even though I'm standing right here, right next to you, you're alone?" she asked.

"I've never been more alone," he breathed out painfully.

"I'm sorry, Grissom," she said, tears welling up in her eyes.  "I can't tell you how much I wanted to make that not true.  I don't know what else to do."

"Just forget it.  Forget all of it.  It was wrong from the beginning, and it can never be made right."

"Please," she said, lowering herself to a squat next to his chair, putting one hand on his arm and the other on his thigh.  "Please let me in.  I promise you won't regret it."

"I regret it all, already.  I regret that I brought you here, uprooting your life just so I could see you.  I regret all the times that I couldn't hold back any longer, and I said things, did things, to keep you here."

"You don't want me here?" Sara asked, her voice wavering.

"No, I don't," he said heavily.  Grissom closed his eyes so that he couldn't see the tears in hers.  "Yes, I do.  But it's tearing me apart."

"I know how that feels.  I don't want to do that to you.  I'll go," she said sadly, slowly standing on wobbly legs.

Grissom nodded, unable to speak.  Those last two words cracked open an abyss under him, sucking him into its depths.  He was in a dark and lonely place, a place of torment, but a self-imposed imprisonment, he knew.

He swiveled his chair to turn away from her.  Parting this way was hard enough;  he didn't want her to see his feelings, and he knew his heart would burst if he saw hers.  

* * * * *

"I don't want there to be any misunderstandings," Braun said, handing a heavy crystal glass filled with Scotch to Paonessa.

The killer sat confidently on the leather couch of the office, leaned back into the soft cushions, his legs crossed with an ankle resting on his knee.  He looked at Braun, but didn't speak.

"My sources tell me that the creature that I used to think of as my son hired you to do this.  He wants you to kill his own sister."

"I don't discuss my business with anyone," Paonessa said, sipping the amber liquid.  He never drank quickly or to excess.  His livelihood and his life depended on always being in control, always being vigilant.

"You don't have to tell me anything," Braun said, pouring himself a drink.  "I'm just letting you know that you won't be getting paid for this contract.  He thinks he can kill his sister so that he inherits everything.  He's wrong."

Paonessa didn't visibly react, but Braun had been in the gambling business his entire life – he knew how to read other people, no matter how stony their poker faces.  For a brief moment, Paonessa's pupils contracted, telling Braun that he was listening and deciding what to do.

"By the end of the day, he'll be dead," Braun continued.  

"I always finish what I start," Paonessa said evenly.

"An admirable quality.  But in this case, you may want to reconsider.  I'll do whatever it takes to protect my daughter and my granddaughter.  Whatever it takes.  I have two offers for you," Braun said, sitting across from Paonessa in a matching leather chair.

The killer raised an eyebrow, bidding him to continue.

"You choose.  I either buy the contract from you, or I kill you."

Paonessa laughed, leaning back into the plump leather cushion.  He sprang back forward menacingly, setting his drink down with enough force to splash the Scotch onto the coffee table.

"Don't ever threaten me," he warned, his laughing face turning deadly serious.

"I'm not threatening you.  I'm giving you a choice.  And considering that you've already hurt my daughter, I consider it a generous offer.  I could have just had you killed outright," Braun said with a smile.

"I have a reputation to uphold," Paonessa demurred.

"But no one knows who you're here to kill, do they?"

"No."

"Then kill somebody else," Braun said, unaffected.

"I could kill you," Paonessa suggested.

Braun laughed.  "You could, indeed, but then you still wouldn't get paid.  It's just business, right?"

Paonessa nodded, reason replacing his anger.

"I'm told that the only person visiting my son in prison was his lawyer.  Did he make the arrangements with you?"

Paonessa didn't answer, but merely stared ahead.  Part of his value to his clients was his discretion.

"He's the only one who can connect you to the attack on my daughter.  He's the only one who could tell anyone that you didn't fulfill your contract.  Kill him," Braun suggested.  

"He is a lawyer," Paonessa said agreeably.

"Reason enough right there," Braun nodded.

* * * * *

"Just who I was looking for!" Jeff said, catching up with Sara as she left the lab, glad that the sun was out so that she could put on her dark sunglasses to hide behind.

"What for?" she asked, still trudging towards her car.

"Wanted to see if you wanted to catch some breakfast," he said hopefully.

"No, thanks.  Not in a good mood.  I wouldn't be very good company," she said as she pulled open the door to her Yukon.  

"Maybe I could cheer you up," Jeff said, smiling at her.

Sara was wedged between the open door and the cab of the SUV, one arm propped against the door and the other up on the roof of the car.  Jeff moved in slightly, putting a hand on the door and the other next to hers on the roof of the car.

They stood facing each other for a moment while Sara tried to think of a nice way to let Jeff know that this morning wasn't a good time, without making him feel rejected.  She'd had a belly-full of rejection, and wasn't about to unthinkingly inflict it on someone else, if she didn't have to.

Just as she was about to open her mouth to speak, Grissom walked by, on the way to his own car.  He looked briefly at the young deputy, then at Sara, a flicker of emotion narrowing his eyes before he put on his own sunglasses, lowered his head, and walked on without a word.

"Sure, Jeff.  You might be right.  Maybe I just need to get out for a while," she said, smiling to hide the dull ache in her chest.

* * * * *

"How're you feeling, baby?" Braun asked Catherine, smiling hopefully at her.

"I'm okay, I guess," she said, trying to shift positions to relieve the stiffness that was settling over her, but finding that movement sent sharp daggers of pain into her chest.

Braun winced, wishing there was any way he could take the pain onto himself.  He didn't think that it could hurt any worse than what he felt inside.  In the past couple of years his family had fallen apart;  he'd tried to rebuild his family around his daughter and granddaughter, only to be rebuffed.  But he was resolved to keep trying.

Now she was his only remaining child;  the funeral for his son would be later that morning.  He'd been attacked by a gang of inmates, stabbed repeatedly.  No one knew who was behind the attack, but it was rumored that he'd crossed someone very powerful.

"Why are you dressed like that?" Catherine asked, licking her dry lips vainly.  "You never wear dark suits – you said it was too hot here for black."

"Your brother was killed in prison two days ago.  His funeral is later this morning," Braun said, resignation in his voice.  Though he had arranged the murder, he still felt the disappointment in how his family had turned out.  His sons were troubled, but they were still his flesh and blood, and he missed them.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Sam," Catherine said, not feeling the least bit affected, but knowing that she had to say something.

"Well, I still have you," he said, smiling sadly.  "And Lindsey."

"Sam ..." Catherine said tiredly.

"You need to rest now.  Don't worry, I've taken care of everything," Braun said paternally, reaching out to stroke her hair.  

"Taken care of what things?" Catherine asked, her face furrowed in suspicion.

"I'm helping your mother with Lindsey – as much as she'll let me, that is.  Little things, like taking them places, checking on them, helping them get by."

"I'll pay you back," Catherine said firmly.

"Yeah, I figured you'd say that," Braun chuckled.  "But Lindsey's having fun.  It's not every little girl that gets dropped off and picked up from school in a limousine."

"You're going to spoil her," Catherine groused.

"That's a grandparent's job description.  Not all of them make you work like a field hand on their ranch."

"It didn't kill me," Catherine shot back, unwilling to let Sam Braun denigrate the people who were there for her when she was a child.

"I know, baby, that's not what I meant," he said conciliatorily.  "But things are different now for kids.  Have some faith in your own ability to raise a kid who can enjoy what I can offer without it ruining her.  You and your mother can keep her feet on the ground, even if I sometimes put her head in the clouds."

"Please tell me that you haven't told her that you're her grandfather," Catherine sighed, briefly closing her eyes.

"I haven't.  I'm just a friend of your mother's, for all she knows."

"Good.  Keep it that way.  That way, she won't feel so bad when she finds out what you've done."

"That was already ancient history when you found out about it.  Maybe she'll judge me for who I am, instead of who I was," Braun said wistfully.

"Anyone who'll kill once can kill again," Catherine said, holding his eyes captive with her own, two sets of ice-blue glaciers vying.

"Only to protect what's most important to me," he said seriously; then shrugging slightly, he added, "if it ever came down to that."

* * * * *

It was a rare night off, but Grissom took it willingly, feeling the need to distance himself from her, to take the time to reinforce the already substantial walls of the castle keep that protected his heart.

The arrival of autumn had brought a crispness to the air, but he hadn't bothered to have his central heating lit yet, especially since he was so seldom at home awake, and in sleep he was covered by the thick comforter.

Instead, tonight he was lying on the couch in a heavy sweatshirt and sweatpants, an afghan draped across his legs as he read.  He'd chosen a journal in the hopes that it would take his mind off of her, but he caught himself thinking with each new learned fact: I can't wait to tell Sara about this or Sara would find this interesting.

He dropped the open journal on his chest and huffed in frustration at himself.  Why can't I forget about you?

He shook her image from his mind and picked the journal up from his chest, blinking his eyes to refocus on the page.  He found that he had to stop and re-read the last section, realizing that his eyes moved across the page, but his mind didn't absorb any of the words.

He heard a small sound – perhaps the icemaker plopping out fresh cubes, or a car door slamming down on the street.  Returning from his brief diversion, he forced himself to say each word in his mind, intent on retaining the information.

The small sound troubled him again, and he got up to look through the peephole in his door, feeling the instant churning in his gut when he saw that it was her.

Fumbling with the deadbolt, he finally pulled the door open, his eyes narrowing when he saw her standing listlessly, defeated, at his door.  He leaned in towards his house, bidding her silently to come in.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, not as defensively as he felt.

She stood just inside the door, her weight shifted to one hip, her hands clasped together at the end of loosely hung arms.  She lifted her eyes to him and shrugged almost imperceptibly.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, beginning to become worried.

Sara shook her head slowly side to side, moving only centimeters each way, never taking her eyes from him.

"What happened?" he asked, moving towards her, taking her gently by an arm, and leading her over to the couch to sit.  Rather than sit next to her, he eased himself down to the coffee table across from her, his knees framing hers as he leaned forward to look at her.

_She's seen something – something that was too much.  I can see death in her eyes.  Cruelty.  Pain.  Shattered lives._

"Tell me," he said gently, taking each of her hands in his own.

Sara looked at him, wondering how to tell him so that he'd understand.  How do you describe a sunset to a blind man?  How can you draw an illustration of a symphony to a deaf man?  And how do you talk about your feelings to someone who evidently has none, or at least has learned not to acknowledge them?

_I shouldn't have come here – but I couldn't think of anyplace else to go.  What made me think he'd make me feel better?  That he'd take the images out of my mind?  If I try to tell him, he'll just listen quietly, then tell me to get a life, or at least a diversion.  _

"I'm sorry.  I should go," Sara said, trying to rise, but not able to with him hovering in front of her.  She collapsed back into the couch, letting her head fall back, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Tell me," he repeated.

"No, you tell me," she said, sitting up, her dead eyes awakened with a flash of some primal emotion – perhaps anger, perhaps pain.

"Tell you what?" he asked, perplexed.

"Tell me how to do it," she said, pleadingly, reaching out to grab his hands in supplication.  "Tell me how to forget what I've seen."

Grissom exhaled deeply, frustrated that he couldn't just draw it from her and into himself.  Despite what the others thought, he didn't forget the horrors he'd seen.  He'd use all the willpower he had to push them as deep as he could, holding the images there until he slept at night, where they could escape, unbound.

"What did you see?" he asked, pulling one of his hands free to lift her chin so that she'd look him in the eye again.  If she couldn't verbalize it, he thought he might be able to see it in her eyes.

"So little.  She was so little," Sara said, shaking her head.  "Brass and I got there a couple of minutes before the paramedics did.  We'd been at another scene not far away.  I almost didn't recognize what it was at first.  I thought someone had dumped some trash beside the road," she said, her eyes starting to sparkle, not from laughter but from tears.

"Trash.  Just something to use and throw away," she said, her voice shaking.  

Grissom walked quickly over to his desk and retrieved a box of tissues, offering her one as he sat back in front of her.  

"Go on," he urged softly.

"Bruised.  Battered.  Blood everywhere.  Her clothes were in tatters," she said, breaking into a sob that began to wrack her body.

Grissom reached out for her shoulders, pulling her towards him.  Their legs impeded them, and he moved beside her on the couch, turning slightly to give her access to his chest.

He rocked her slowly as her tears turned the front of the gray sweatshirt almost charcoal black, and he felt the warm wetness against the skin of his chest.

"And you want to know the worst part of it?" she asked, sniffling as she pulled herself back from him.

"The worst part is that she's going to survive.  She's still in grade school and her life has already been destroyed, shattered, forever changed.  Nothing will ever be the same.  Nothing," she said, breaking down again, falling back into him.

"Shhhhh," he intoned, stroking her hair and rocking her.

"Make it go away, Grissom," she sobbed into the soaked sweatshirt.

"I can't," he said quietly.

"Yes, you can.  You're the only one who can," she said pleadingly.

"No, I can't," he said sadly.  "When you come eye-to-eye with The Beast, there are only two things you can do.  You can look away, knowing you'll never forget its ugliness, but trying like hell to fill your eyes with something else.  Or you can look it straight in the eye, and be turned to stone."

"Turning to stone sounds good right about now," she sniffed.

"That's what I thought, too.  But it has its drawbacks.  It's cold.  It's hard.  It's impenetrable."

"Are you like that all the way through?  Or only on the outside?" she asked.

"I'm not sure anymore," he answered.  "I thought it was all the way through, that I was safe from ever feeling anything again.  But now I'm not so sure."

"I can't take away the nightmares she'll have the rest of her life," Sara said.  "All I can do is share them with her."

"Do you know who did this to her?" Grissom asked, doubting that Sara would have left the lab if she didn't already know the name of this manifestation of The Beast.

"Yes.  Her cousin.  He's 16 years old.  He's been arrested twice – once for peeping and once for arson.  He's on probation;  supposed to be in therapy."

"Peeping, arson," Grissom ticked off, stopping suddenly.  "Did he rape her?" he asked, seeing the progression that was common to rapists.

"In every way imaginable," Sara sighed.

"Is he in custody?"

"No.  He ran.  But how far can a 16-year-old boy with no money get?  Brass'll get him," she assured herself.

She shuddered violently, and the tears welled up again as the vivid images of little Rosalinda Chavez flashed into her consciousness once again.

"Rosalinda.   Pretty Rose," Sara muttered almost incoherently.

"What?" Grissom asked, leaning his ear down next to her mouth.

"Her name is Rosalinda.  Spanish for Pretty Rose.  I saw her picture.  She used to be pretty," Sara said, collapsing into him again.

"Sara ..." Grissom exhaled, filled with frustration that he couldn't stop the insanity that seemed to have gripped the world;  filled with rage that someone in her own family, someone she no doubt trusted, had violated Rosalinda;  and filled with a longing to take the burden away from Sara, even if for just a little while.

Still holding her and stroking her arm as he wrapped his around her, he peppered her hair with soothing kisses, as one would an injured child – knowing the kisses had no real curative powers but feeling the need to try anyway.

She lifted her head from his chest and laid it in the crook of his neck, the feel of his beard, the smell of his skin and the pounding of his pulse in his carotid seeming to lull her, calming her somewhat.  The violent shudders and sobs gave way to hiccups, his caresses and kisses infusing her with a warmth that fought the chill she had picked up beside the road, where they found Rosalinda Chavez.

His lips moved from her hair to her cheek, and she turned to him seeking the warmth of his mouth with her own.  There was a sad desperation in her kisses that shot through him, and he fell headlong into her need, tasting it on her skin and on her lips.

_Stop!  _

_No, she needs this.  She needs me.  I didn't go to her, she came to me.  I can't turn her away now.  It's too late for that._

She licked the inside of his lips sensuously, offering him her tongue, and he took it greedily, his own need building to match hers.  

"I need to feel alive," she gasped between forays around his face and neck, finally trekking back to his waiting lips.

He gazed at her with lust-lidded eyes, and he knew that at that moment, he could deny her nothing.  Whatever she wanted, she could have.  Whatever she needed, she had only to take.

"I need to feel you," she said, running her hands up under his sweatshirt.  He tugged her around so that she was in his lap, reclining into his right arm, while the other hand began to freely explore her.

She could feel him building beneath her, and she knew he wouldn't pull back this time.  Not this time.  His own body would conspire with her to take him to the place beyond restraint.

"Sara," he huffed out breathlessly, "if you don't want this ... all of this ... we have to stop now."

"Make me forget, Grissom," she answered, wrestling the sweatshirt off of his now-damp skin, a thin sheen of sweat forming from the heat of their passion.

_Make her forget.  I can do that.  For a while.  And I can forget some things, too.  Like why I can't have her._

She started to unbutton her shirt, but Grissom gently pushed away her hand with a shake of his head.  He freed each button one at a time, kissing the newly exposed flesh with each iteration.

Sara was surprised to see that in lovemaking, he lost his awkwardness.  As he began acting on instinct rather than intellect, he became less aware of himself and more aware of her.

She leaned her head back as he freed her from her shirt and bra, and he paused, briefly stunned that she was there, and he was there, and she was half-naked in his lap.

They sank slowly to the couch, their ardor steadily building.  Grissom's sweatpants left nothing to the imagination, his full arousal evident to them both as he lay partially atop her, their legs intertwining.

Grissom groaned into her kiss as she ran her hands lightly just under the rim of his sweatpants, starting at the middle of his back and sliding around slowly to the front, just skimming the top of his erection.

He rolled a bit more to his side, against the back of the couch, to expose her more, unfastening the top of her slacks to allow him the same access to her that she already had to him.

She shuddered, but he could see that it wasn't from passion but from horror, as her face took on the mottled hardness of one fighting terror.

"Don't think about it," he breathed, pulling her back up to his lips, renewing the exploration of her body with his hand.

She tried to lose herself in him again, but she couldn't, and she pulled back from him, pushing up against his chest.

"I can't.  I can't do this.  Not right now."

"You can forget ... for a little while," he said, trying to lower back down into her kiss, but meeting the resistance of her hands.

"No.  It's wrong.  It's surreal.  Sex almost killed Rosalinda Chavez, and now my body is begging to have sex with you.  It's too weird," she said, extracting herself from under him, reaching for her shirt.

"It wasn't sex that almost killed her.  It was violence.  Rape isn't about sex.  You know that," Grissom said, fighting to keep the frustration out of his voice.  He had to remind himself that this had begun as a way to help her, not as a release for him.  

"God, I'm sorry.  I feel awful.  This was an awful thing to do to you," she said, standing, her back to him so that she wouldn't have to face him.

"You don't have to leave," he said, standing behind her, wanting to wrap his arms around her and pull her against his bare chest, but settling for a placing a warm hand on her shoulder.

"Yes, I do.  I've done enough damage for one day," she breathed out, looking around for her purse and keys.

"No, you haven't done anything wrong.  You can stay for a while.  We can eat.  Talk.  Having sex isn't a requirement," he said, the awkwardness starting to reassert itself in him.  It was difficult to sound convincing when his sweatpants still bulged.

She turned, and put a hand along his cheek, trying but failing to ignore his flagging, but still evident, reaction to their foreplay.  "I'm sorry for using you like that.  And I'm sorry that I got you like this, then quit.  It doesn't mean I don't want you," she said in a hoarse whisper.

"I want you, too.  But only when you're ready," he said gently, lifting a hand and rolling it midair so that he could stroke the side of her face with the softer flesh on the back of his fingers.

"I've been ready for years.  And now that it's all within reach, I can't do it," she said, chuckling mirthlessly at herself.

"Stay.  Let me be a friend, even if I can't be your lover," he said earnestly.

"You were the first person I thought of, but the last person I ought to be around.  Being near you makes me say things, do things, all wrong.  I'll just mess things up more."  She turned abruptly and left, seeming to leave a gaping hole.

It didn't matter if it was a crime scene, his office, or his home:  Sara would say something he needed to think about before he responded, but she'd be gone by the time he looked up, leaving just the vacuum of emptiness where she'd been standing.

Grissom still sat immobile as the sun came up, changing the hue and the feel of the room.  Blinking as he looked around, he almost wondered if he had fallen asleep and dreamed it all.

That is, until he saw the edge of her bra peeking out of the afghan.  She'd put on her shirt in hurried embarrassment, not even thinking about her undergarment.  

He reached out his hand and pulled it slowly from the blanket, the silkiness of its fabric reminding him of her smooth skin.  

He reminisced about the few minutes she'd spent in his arms, and he felt himself wanting her again.  As he held the bra near his face, he smiled at the scent of her on it.  

_She came to me.  Not Greg.  Not Deputy What's-his-name.  Me.  She needed me.  She stopped because it was the wrong time, not because it was the wrong man._

He skipped breakfast and went straight to bed.  Though she'd never been in it, the bed seemed empty without her.  He set the bra on the other pillow, symbolically marking her territory.

With the memory of her that was fresh in the mind and a practiced hand, he replayed their rendezvous, writing a different ending this time.  Relieved, though not sated, he turned towards her place in the bed and closed his eyes to sleep, allowing himself to dream of her.

* * * * *

He might not admit it to anyone, but Nick still felt an emotional charge whenever he first walked up to an important crime scene with an important criminalist like Grissom – it made him feel important as well.

His head was held higher, his chest puffed out just a little more.  He would sport a serious face, even if Brass joked around.

He and Grissom ducked under the tape and walked around the Lexus rental car to where Jim Brass stood.  Nick began to shoot pictures of the body propped up next to the front wheel well, a single hole in his forehead.

The man was well-dressed, and if the Lexus had been rented to him, all indications were that he was a man of at least some means.  Grissom felt the front of the suit jacket, pulling out a wallet still stuffed with cash.

At that moment, Sara pulled her vehicle up behind Nick's SUV, taking a deep breath as she hefted her kit from the back seat.  Grissom hadn't acted any differently at assignments earlier, but she was nervous about working with him after her performance at his townhouse the night before.

"Robbery obviously wasn't the motive.  Who is this?" Grissom asked.

"This is Leonardo Paonessa, a maestro of murder.  He was thought to be responsible for somewhere in the neighborhood of 90 murders, but never left enough evidence to even arrest him, much less convict him."

"Not the type to normally end up with a single bullet hole in his head – from close range," Grissom said, as Sara moved up behind him.  She didn't make a sound, didn't announce her presence, but she didn't have to.

"No.  You'd think he'd be more cautious."

"Unless he knew and trusted the person who shot him," Grissom said.

"This kind never trusts anybody," Brass said, shaking his head.

"That's usually best.  If this is the first time he trusted someone, look what it got him," Grissom said, earning a one-eyebrowed smirk from Brass.

Sara blanched, glad she was standing behind the men.  She had expected some sort of reaction from him, and wasn't surprised that feeling like his trust was betrayed was the outcome.  She had to admit that she had done just that.  He had finally given himself over to her, only to be rejected, even if the reason had nothing to do with him.

Sara wished that Nick weren't there, that she would have some opportunity to talk to him, to tell him again that she's sorry for her carelessness with his feelings.  She could only assume that he had Nick there to avoid having to talk.  It didn't take three CSIs to process a single gunshot.

_But why call me here?  Why not just work it with Nick?  Does he think it's related to our case?  Or does he want a chance to talk?  Or maybe just a chance to be near each other without talking?  Just to see what happens, how I react?_

"What do you want me to do?" Sara asked a bit unsteadily when Grissom turned to face her.  She hadn't meant a double-entendre, but the look in his eye told her that he took her question on more than one level.

"Whatever you think needs to be done," he answered lowly, his own double meaning clear to her.

"I'm not really sure."

"Nick, you got this covered?" Grissom asked, waving his hand over the crime scene.

"Sure, boss," Nick nodded, feeling all the more confident since Grissom was obviously entrusting the entire collection to him.

"Let's go," Grissom said, leading Sara to her SUV.

"Where?"

"To talk to Sam Braun."

"Do you think he knows something about this?" Sara asked, starting the vehicle, glad to have the case to talk about.

"A world-famous hit man comes to Las Vegas and turns up dead.  I would have a hard time believing that he hasn't heard a thing about it," Grissom answered.

The drive to the Rampart began quietly, with each seeming to be lost in a world of their own thoughts.  Pulling into the parking garage of the casino, Sara found a space large enough to accommodate the Denali, sliding it into park.  

Neither made an immediate move to get out, both feeling like something needed to be said, to be settled, before they could move on.

"Um, Grissom, I just wanted to say, um, to tell you again, how sorry I am," Sara stammered.

"Don't worry about it."

"It's just that, um, I'm sure it's sort of confusing to you.  I mean, after everything that's happened, after everything I've said.  I'm not sure if I'm more embarrassed that I pushed you into it, or that I bailed once you were, um, interested, I guess."

"I've always been interested," he admitted, looking straight ahead, just as Sara was.  The emotion in the vehicle was too great to risk looking at each other until they could say some things that they couldn't hold in any longer.

"Well, I mean interested interested.  Really interested.  Not just sort of interested, like you can just ignore."

"No, you're right.  It wasn't the sort of interest one could just easily ignore," he nodded.

"Do you understand why I did what I did?" she asked, finally turning to look at him, though he still stared resolutely out the front of the SUV.

"I think so."

"Good.  Good.  Um, could you explain it to me, then?" she asked, her voice light, as though she were joking, but her manner indicating that she wasn't.

Grissom huffed a short laugh and looked down, shaking his head slightly before turning to her.

"You needed a diversion from something that was too much to handle.  It's no more complicated than that.  It happens to a lot of people who work in life-and-death professions like ours, or police work, or health care.  You just needed something to take your mind off of it, to remind you that you're alive."

"You think that's all you are to me?  A diversion?" she asked incredulously.

"I think that's what I was last night," he said very deliberately.

"And that doesn't piss you off?" she asked, even more flummoxed.

"No.  At least it was me.  It could have been Greg or that deputy."

"Jeff."

"I can at least take a certain amount of satisfaction from being the one you chose to go to, can't I?"

"I could see where you might say that if I hadn't left you high and dry," she said guiltily.

"I choose to believe that you would have done the same thing no matter who you had gone to for comfort.  I don't take it personally," he shrugged.

"Wow, you're being a whole lot more philosophical and gallant about this than most people would be.  I know for a fact that I'd be hurt, furious, or both."

"That's because you would have expected more.  I didn't expect anything.  I came away with a lot more than I thought I would, so why should I be angry or hurt?"

"Are you serious?"

"Entirely."

"You can't be serious.  Someone just comes waltzing into your home, throws herself at you, then leaves when you're, uh, when you're ..."

"Aroused."

"Yeah, that.  And you're just going to be happy with what you got?"

"Yes.  It's better than nothing."

"I'm not sure about that," she said, turning back to stare out the front, trying to put all that he'd said into a context she could understand.

"Did you tell what's-his-name about the case that upset you?  Didn't you have a dinner date tonight with him?"

"Jeff.  Why can't you remember his name?"

"I have no desire to."

"Well, anyway, no, I didn't go out with Jeff tonight."

"Oh, I thought you had a date."

"We did.  I cancelled it."

"Why?"

"Maybe I'm intent on disappointing every man who has any interest in me," she laughed, mirthlessly.

"I can't wait to see what you have in store for Greg," Grissom mumbled.

"I've been disappointing Greg for years.  He's used to it.  Doesn't faze him anymore."

"Is that how it works?" Grissom asked, looking intently at her.  "Disappoint someone long enough, and they get used to it?"

"No, I guess not," Sara said heavily.  "I never got used to it."

"So, why did you break your date, really?"

"Because."

"Because of what?" Grissom pressed, leaning slightly towards her.

"Because I couldn't get last night out of my mind," she admitted.

"In a good way, or in a bad way?"

"Both.  I felt bad for what I did to you.  But I also felt ...  Well, anyway, I didn't feel like going out with him after that."

"Why not?" Grissom pressed, but his voice becoming lower, more gentle.

"I don't want to lead him on.  It wouldn't be fair.  I'm not really interested in him.  He's a nice enough guy and all that, but he's not, well, he's not, uh ..." 

"He's not what?" he asked, reaching across slowly to rest his arm on the back of her seat, lightly stroking her hair.

Sara briefly closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and took a deep breath, trying to compose herself even though even the slight contact was making it impossible.

"He's not ... you," she said, shrugging, then lowering her face to avoid his eyes.

"Are you sure that's a bad thing?" he asked, his fingers occasionally parting the hair to sweep lightly across her ears and neck.

"It's an all-to-common fatal flaw.  There's only one man who doesn't have it," she said, forcing herself to look up at him.  The intensity of emotion and desire in his eyes made it impossible for her to think or to breathe.

Grissom's hand slid around under her hair to the far side of her long, graceful neck.  He pulled her towards him lightly, waiting to sense any hesitation on her part.  He wanted to be sure she knew it was an invitation, not an expectation.

Instead, she yielded almost immediately, turning to meet his lips halfway.  It began hungrily, frantically, matching the fever pitch of the emotions that surrounded them.  Both needed to prove to themselves and to each other that the previous night hadn't been a fluke, a diversion, but instead a rare glimpse at the truth between them.

Grissom soon took control, slowing them down, turning the passion to something more meaningful, more lasting.  His kisses were no longer forceful, but adoring;  his grasp no longer tightly possessive, but reverential, lightly caressing her face and neck.

She was relaxing in rhythm with him, and her hand slid aimlessly down his body, accidentally crossing his lap.  Sara suddenly pulled back from his kiss, and dropped her head again.

"Great.  I've done it again.  Gotten you all worked up for nothing," she sighed.

"It's okay.  I'll survive," he said, pulling her chin up, though her eyes stayed down.

"Sara, look at me," he said softly, yet firmly.  "I meant what I said last night.  You excite me – that's patently obvious.  I can't very well hide that I want you.  But I'm not pushing you to do anything you don't want to do.  You were patient with me for a long time.  I can be patient, too."

"I'm sorry, Grissom.  I'm just a mess right now.  Well, actually for quite a while.  So much has happened in the last year, and almost none of it good.  Now you're offering me something I've wanted literally for years, and I can't seem to get my head back on straight enough to enjoy it like I would have a year ago.  It's just so confusing.  I wouldn't blame you if you just walked away from it.  At least this time, I'd understand why."

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, leaning forward to buff her lightly on the cheek.

"I hope you still feel this way when I get my act together.  To be honest, some part of me thinks you're only doing this because you know I won't take you up on it.  I don't mean to offend you, but this just isn't like you.  I have to tell you the truth:  I half-expect that you'd bail if I said, 'Take me home.   Right now.  Let's make love.'"

"Try me," Grissom said, a half-grin playing at one side of his mouth, his eyes sparkling as though he was laughing.

Sara stared at him contemplatively.  "One day I will.  But not until I'm sure I won't disappoint you again."

"You haven't disappointed me so far.  Kissing you is everything I dreamt it would be."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I know."

"Will you wait for me?" she asked, her voice wavering.

"Can I still hold you?  Kiss you?" he asked, as though he were negotiating for the best deal he could get.

"Yes, but not during work anymore."

"Does that mean you'll see me outside of work?" he pressed.

"That's never been an issue.  You've never asked.  And you turned me down when I asked."

"Can I see you after work today?  We can go have breakfast somewhere."

"Okay.  But no PDAs."

"PDAs?"

"Public displays of affection," she translated.

"Oh.  Of course not.  In the back corner of the fourth level of a poorly lit garage is one thing.  But I wouldn't do this in public."

"I didn't think so, but I wanted to make sure.  I'm not sure I recognize the new Grissom."

"This isn't new.  It's how I've always felt."

"Well, it's new for you to show it.  You have me kind of off-balance.  I don't really know what to expect," Sara said, smiling, though she was serious.

"Neither do I," he admitted, meeting her smile.

"If we're going to go talk to this guy, we better do it," Sara said resolutely.

As they walked, Grissom surprised her by reaching over to take her hand, eliciting a look that bordered between a smile and a frown.

"We're not in public," he shrugged.  "I promise I'll behave once we go through those doors."

* * * * *

"Hey, girl, how you feeling?" Warrick asked quietly.  Catherine had been moved earlier that day to a private room, but there were still visiting hours and they weren't one o'clock in the morning.  Warrick had slipped into the room like a thief, after briefly casing the floor to determine where the nurses were.

"Not too bad, considering," Catherine answered, smiling groggily.  "The pain medication works really well, unless I do something like move ... or breathe ... or think."

"Do you remember any of it?"

"No, not really.  We – Sara and I – were working a suicide.  No, a double-suicide.  That's right.  We were talking at the door, just small talk.  Then something knocked me down.  It didn't exactly hurt, like it does now.  Then I remember just little fragments of things, like my back scraping across a floor.  Opening my eyes in a dark place, but I guess I passed out before I figured out where I was."

"A closet.  Sara dragged you in the house and hid you in a closet," Warrick detailed.

"Oh.  I guess that explains it.  Is Sara okay?  Nobody's said anything."

"Yeah, she's fine.  She came to see you in ICU, but you were still out cold.  The deputy caught a bullet, but it was his arm, so he's already out of the hospital."

"Hey, tell her I want to talk to her, okay?"

"Sure.  She's working the case with Grissom now."

"Oh, I bet that's fun," Catherine snorted, bringing a wince of pain.

"Something's going on, but I'm not sure what it is.  She went on a date with a deputy she met at the crime scene, and then she went out with Greg."

"Sounds like she's getting on with her life.  That's good, I guess.  Too bad for them, though, in a way.  They're so much alike.  I really thought she might be good for Grissom, you know?"

"Yeah, I know.  But they've been working together for several days now, so maybe they can at least get friendly again.  Even that would be cool."

"Yeah.  How's Nicky?"

"Nick's fine.  Everyone's fine.  We're just worried about you, that's all.  We miss you.  The place just isn't the same without you," Warrick said, his green eyes carrying the smile.

"Hey, can I ask you a personal question?  This is off-the-record."

"Sure."

"What's with the check from Sam Braun?"

"What check?" Catherine asked, her eyes narrowing.

"You're a victim of a crime.  Do you think we didn't process your house, your car?"

"Oh.  Well, I don't really know.  I kind of do, but not really.  He wants us to all be one big, happy family.  As usual, he thinks he can buy anything he wants.  You know he's my father, right?"

"Yeah, I heard that."

"So, I guess the check is his way of saying that he forgives me for putting him in jail."

"Or his way of compromising you," Warrick offered ominously.

"He's not above that, too," Catherine exhaled.  "But I really think he meant it as a gift, not a payoff."

"They why didn't you deposit it?"

"I don't know.  I guess I haven't decided whether to let him into our lives or not.  I keep thinking I can cut him out, but he keeps turning up, like a bad penny."

"So you just put it in a drawer."

"Yeah.  I figured that I had plenty of time to decide whether to spend my inheritance or not."

"What do you mean?"

"My brother – half-brother, that is – was killed in prison a few days ago.  I'm Sam's last living child."

"So you inherit his casino, all his assets?"

"Yeah, I guess so.  That's what he said, anyway."

"This could be important, Cath.  First, you get shot.  Then your brother gets killed.  Is there anyone else who stands to inherit his money?"

"Only Lindsey, and I think she's a little young to plan two murders," Catherine joked.

"No cousins, nieces, nephews?"

"I don't really know that much about his family.  Hell, I've only known he was my father for a few months.  I barely knew his sons."

"Still, seems like a pretty amazing coincidence, don't you think?"

"I guess.  Hey, I appreciate you coming here.  I can't tell you how good it makes me feel to see you, but I'm beat."

"I'm supposed to be working anyway," Warrick shared conspiratorially.

"Working solo tonight?"

"Yeah.  Arson at the high school.  It didn't exactly take Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out."

"Will you come see me again?" Catherine asked sleepily.

"Sure.  I'll come in the morning when I get off work.  I'm really glad you're feeling better.  You really had me going there for a while."

"Hmm," she intoned, drifting off to sleep.

"Goodnight," Warrick said softly, leaning over to kiss her forehead.

* * * * *

"Mr. Braun," Sara began, smiling sweetly.  "Have you ever heard of Leonardo Paonessa?"

"Yes, of course.  I think I even read an article on him in Newsweek or Time.  One of those weekly news magazines.  He's a hit man, right?"

"Right.  Did you know he was in Las Vegas?" Sara continued.

"Someone told me they saw him down at the Bellagio, but I didn't put much faith in it.  People all the time think they see the boogeyman.  As long as he stays away from the Rampart, I don't really care where else he goes.  If he tries to come in my casino, he'll be shown the door.  I don't like that kind of riff-raff in my hotel."

"Well, that shouldn't be a problem anymore," Grissom pitched in.  "He's dead."

"Good riddance.  Cops get him?"

"No.  He was murdered."

"Serves him right, I figure," Braun nodded.

"You have no idea why he was in town?" Sara asked, leaning forward, her arms lying along her thighs.

"There are always famous people, politicians, rich folks in Vegas.  Maybe he was here to kill one of them.  Or maybe he was just on vacation.  I don't know."

"Did you know Louis and Rachel Sanderson?" Grissom queried.

"I've met them a few times.  He's a real estate developer, or something like that.  Single-family housing, I think.  He did well at it, until the economy went sour.  I heard that his homes were still selling, but he lost all his investments.  Had to start back at square one."

"He's dead, too.  And his wife."

"Do tell.  Folks are dropping like flies around here lately."

"Yes, they are," Grissom nodded, narrowing his eyes.  "Catherine Willows was almost one of them."

Braun's face kept its smile, but the warmth left it, making his face look like a stone carving, cold and lifeless.

"How is Catherine doing?" he asked calmly.

"Better.  She's in a private room now," Sara answered.

"Good.  I'll have to get by and see her.  It's getting late, and I'm an old man.  Do you have any other questions?  If not, I'd like to call it a day."

"Just one. Have you heard anything about who might have attacked Catherine?  Do you know who tried to kill her?" Sara asked, dropping her flirtatiousness, but keeping civil.

"I've put the word out on the street.  I've offered a reward for information.  Not officially, of course.  Should I do that, as well?  Like you see on TV?  I'll do it, if you think it'll help."

"We'll let you know, Mr. Braun," Sara said.

"Call me Sam," he said, smiling coyly.

"Okay, Sam. You have our cards.  Please don't hesitate to call if you hear anything at all."

"Yes, I have them.  Let me see you to the door."

As soon as Grissom and Sara were clear of the Rampart, back in the dimly lit cavernous parking garage, she said quietly, as though afraid she'd be overheard, "Did you notice that he didn't really answer any of our questions directly?  He never exactly lied, he just talked around the question."

"Yes, I did," Grissom nodded.  "He knows something that he's not telling us.  But why would he hide it?  Catherine's his daughter.  And you could tell by his reactions that he was upset by what happened to her."

"Maybe he plans to handle it on his own," Sara posited, opening the door to the SUV.

"Great.  That's all we need – more bodies," Grissom replied, joining her.

"Maybe not more.  Maybe some of the bodies we already have.  Think about it.  A killer shows up in Vegas, and Braun claims he doesn't know anything about it.  Then the killer's killed?  And again, he knows nothing.  He pays people to make sure he knows everything."

"But why would someone hire a high-priced hit man to kill Catherine?"

"I guess they wanted it done professionally.  Discreetly."

"Motive?"

"Who knows?  Maybe it has something to do with her relationship to Braun.  Maybe that's why he's upset.  Someone might be trying to get to him by killing his daughter."

"So you think someone hired Paonessa to kill Catherine, then Braun found out and had him killed?"

"Stranger things have happened."

* * * * *

"I just heard the most interesting rumor," Brass said, standing at Grissom's door before sliding in and dropping into a chair.

Grissom stared at Brass, for a moment wondering if it had to do with him and Sara.

"The brother of one of my snitches is doing a little R&R at Western Nevada State Correctional Facility.  The brother claims that Braun's son, Walt, hired Paonessa to kill Catherine, knowing that Braun would more likely leave his money to her than to him."

"How did he plan to pay for it?" Grissom asked.

"He had some money he'd skimmed from Daddy's casino.  His lawyer made the arrangements with Paonessa and would get the money to him."

"But now Paonessa's dead," Grissom mused.

"And so is Walt Braun and the lawyer.  But Catherine's alive, and Sam Braun's alive."

"Interesting," Grissom nodded.  "How'd Walt Braun die?"

"Prison fight."

"Convenient.  Shouldn't be all that hard to find out who's behind it."

"Oh, we know who's behind it.  Problem is, we can't prove it.  The guy who knifed him is a lifer, so he's got nothing to lose by keeping quiet."

"What's he getting out of it?" Grissom asked.

"I don't know, but he's got a wife and two kids on the outside, so I'm thinking maybe he's made a little deal to help them out."

"So all we have is hearsay."

"Yep.  Just prison scuttlebutt.  Maybe whoever killed Paonessa for Braun will talk to someone.  They usually do.  More people would get away with murder if they didn't have such big mouths."

"I don't think that's going to happen this time, Jim.  It's just a hunch, but I'd be willing to bet that Braun pulled the trigger himself."

"You think he'd put himself in that position after he just got out of trouble for murder?"

"He doesn't want any loose ends, but more importantly, Paonessa pissed him off when he hurt Catherine.  Braun would never forgive him for that.  He probably took great satisfaction in killing Paonessa.  He probably thinks he did a good thing, protecting his family."

"Well, Gil, unless you're holding out on me, we've got no evidence and we've got no witnesses.  That adds up to we ain't got shit."

"That about sums it up," Grissom nodded.  "Sam Braun's going to get away with murder ... again."

* * * * *

"Hey, beautiful, you free tomorrow?" Greg asked, the moment Sara had entered his lab.

"Oh, well, no, not actually," she said, searching for the right words.  Sara had told herself and Grissom both that she wasn't going to pin all her hopes on one man until he'd proven he was serious, but at the same time, she knew that she wasn't interested in going out with anyone else as long as she held Grissom's interest.

"Oh, okay.  How 'bout Friday?" Greg asked nervously.

"Greg," she sighed, telling him most of what he needed to know with that one word and her body language.  

"I guess it was too good to be true," he said, smiling, but not joyfully.

"Greg, I had a great time with you, and under different circumstances, I'd gladly go out with you again.  You're fun, attentive, and have a great sense of humor.  Some girl is going to be very lucky to find you."

"But you're not that girl," he said wistfully.

"No, I don't think so.  At least not now."

"Did I do something?"

"No, silly," she said, reaching across to put a hand on his arm comfortingly.  "It's nothing like that.  I'm trying to be fair to you.  I don't want to lead you on."

"No, go ahead, lead me on," he chuckled.

"No, Greg, I'm serious," Sara countered.  "I can't do that in good conscience.  I can't go out with you when I'm interested in someone else."

"That deputy guy?" Greg asked.

"Greg, I don't really want to discuss my personal life with anyone.  Just suffice it to say that I'm not available right now."

"You don't sound very sure about the future," Greg hazarded, his voice a mixture of hopeful and concerned.

Sara huffed out a short laugh.  "Hey, I've been burned.  I'm not sure I have much faith in anybody, least of all myself.  I'm just being realistic.  It's all gravy now, but who knows how long it'll last?"

"I don't want to sound schizo here, but I hope it works out for you, but if it doesn't, let me know."

"We're still friends, though, right?" Sara asked, her face morphing into a concerned grimace.

"Of course, Sara.  More than friends.  I don't have any family around here, so I like to think of you guys as my family.  You, Warrick, and Nick are like siblings, in a way.  Catherine can't seem to help but be mothering, though I could do with a little less tough love.  And Grissom's like the crazy uncle, but don't tell him I said that."

"Yeah, my family's not around here, either.  And we're not all that close, anyway.  I'm a lot closer to you guys, even if I don't act like it much."

"They say that blood is thicker than water.  I deal with DNA and blood all the time, so I can tell scientifically if someone is related to someone else, but that doesn't necessarily mean they're family, you know?  How you feel about people is the tie that binds, not genetics."

"Are you a closet philosopher?" Sara said, grinning.

"Yeah, maybe, but don't tell anyone.  I don't want to ruin my reputation as a joker."

"Your secret's safe with me," Sara nodded.

* * * * *

"Dr. Grissom!" Deputy Williamson shouted across the parking lot, jogging up to the criminalist as he was getting into the Denali.

"Yes?" Grissom answered, inwardly cursing that he was going to have to interact with one of Sara's other beaus.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" Williamson asked.

"I'm on my way to a crime scene, so can this wait?"

"I guess it could.  But I really need to talk to you."

Grissom pulled out his cell phone, hitting a speed dial button, having to wait but a moment before it was answered.

"Are you at the crime scene, Nick?  Go ahead and get started.  I'll be there as soon as I can get away.  Call me if you need me before then."

"Thanks.  I promise I won't take up much of your time," Williamson offered.

"What can I do for you?" Grissom asked tersely.

"You can tell me if you're the reason Sara won't go out with me anymore," Williamson answered, surprising Grissom with his bluntness.

"You really should talk to Sara about that, not me."

"She won't say.  All she'll tell me is that she's interested in someone else and doesn't want to be unfair.  I knew she'd gone out with one of the lab techs, but somehow I don't think it's him."

"Deputy, I'm not going to discuss Sara's personal life with you or anyone else," Grissom said firmly, inwardly enjoying a rising swell of elation.

"You know, Dr. Grissom, I have to admit that I never suspected that it was you."

Grissom merely stared at the deputy, not giving him any indication as to whether he was correct.

"Are you the one that hurt her so bad?"

"Did she tell you that she'd been hurt?" Grissom asked, without thinking.

"She didn't have to.  It was obvious by how she acted.  She's cynical, like someone who's been burned badly."

"Who hasn't been, by the time you're an adult?  Who hasn't put their faith in someone who let them down?  As a friend of mine once told me, everyone moves on."

"I want to know who my competition is," Williamson said, his body stiffening defensively.  "Are you dating her, too?"

"My personal life isn't a topic of conversation, either," Grissom stated flatly.

"Don't you think you're a little old for her?" Williamson goaded.

Grissom's glare did little to hide his annoyance.

"And we don't even have to talk about how unprofessional it is to sleep with one of your employees."

"Deputy, that's enough!  I've already told you that I have no intentions of having this discussion with you.  If Sara won't talk to you about it, maybe that should give you a clue that you should just walk away."

"I don't give up the first time there's a problem, Dr. Grissom.  I like Sara.  And I know that she had a good time when we went out.  She was laughing and talking.  But when she cancelled our last date, she seemed down about something."

A pang went through Grissom, an image of Sara's head thrown back in laughter bursting into his mind.  He asked himself how long it had been since he'd witnessed that.  Yet the deputy saw it the first time they were together.  He wondered whether he should withdraw, giving Sara a motive to find happiness with someone who could make her laugh again.

"I don't know what she sees in you, but I can tell you one thing:  you better not screw up, not even once.  'Cause, if you do, I'll be right there, and I won't hesitate to pick up the pieces."

"You see yourself as a knight in shining armor?" Grissom asked sarcastically.

"No.  I see myself as a pretty good guy, all things considered.  And a guy who thinks that Sara's got a lot to offer, if she'll just loosen up a little.  If someone else can't appreciate that, then that's their tough luck.  If I get another chance with her, I'll make sure she knows how special I think she is."

"Sounds like you've got it all worked out," Grissom said, opening the door to his SUV.  "Good luck."

"It's not about luck, it's about caring.  If you care about her, you should show her.  If you don't, you should let her go," Williamson said, with a hint of anger.

"May I ask, Deputy, what makes you think I'm involved with Sara?"

"She's never said anything, if that's what you're asking.  But she talks about work, and I can see it in her eyes whenever she mentions you.  And I've seen you two together at a crime scene.  She was drawn to you, and there seemed to be some connection between you.  And even now, talking to you, I can see it written all over your face."

"So this is all based solely on your interpretation?  You have no facts, no evidence?" Grissom said, squinting at the deputy.

"I have all the evidence I need," he shrugged.  "It's not like it's got to go to court.  I don't have to prove it to anyone."

"You better have more proof if you say any of this to anyone else," Grissom said ominously.

"I'm not that kind of guy, Grissom," Williamson spat out.  "I don't give a damn about you, but I wouldn't put Sara through that."

"That's good to hear, Deputy.  I doubt very much that Sara would appreciate having her personal life become a public discussion."

"Nor would you."

"Nor would I," Grissom agreed, sliding into his vehicle.  "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

"Yes, you do, Dr. Grissom.  And not just at a crime scene," Williamson said, stepping back from the vehicle, but not taking his eyes off of Grissom.

* * * * *

"I had a good time," Sara said, leaning back against her apartment door.  "I've never been to a silent movie before.  To be honest, I never thought I'd be interested."

"Depends on the movie," Grissom shrugged.  "I thought you might like this one.  You know, the rumor was that the star, Max Schreck, really was a vampire, but it wasn't true.  He was a stage actor who also starred in over 20 movies."

"So Shadow of the Vampire wasn't true?" Sara asked lightly.

"I've never heard of it," Grissom shrugged.

"John Malkovich.  Willem Dafoe.  Supposedly the story of the making of Nosferatu."

"If they implied he was really a vampire, then no, it's not true," Grissom said, wondering if she was amused or bothered by his disinterest in current popular culture.  Until recently, it had never been very important to him.  

But it seemed that the more he connected to her, the more connected he felt to the rest of the world.  It was as if she were some sort of interpreter who translated the world to him, making it less foreign to him.

"You want to come in for a little while?" she asked.

"I don't think I should," he said with a face that hovered between a smile and a grimace.

"Why not?  It's not that late.  Shift doesn't start for hours.  You already ate, slept and bathed.  What's your hurry?" she teased.

"I think I should say goodnight.  I'll see you at work," he said, leaning over to give her a quick goodnight kiss, hands demurely on her upper arms rather than around her waist.

"Okay, what's up?" she asked, getting a little concerned.  "I've had more passionate kisses from my mother."

Grissom chuckled at her joke, but didn't answer.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asked, playing back the past several minutes to try to fathom what she might have said to bother him.

"No!  It's nothing like that," he said, shaking his head.  

"What is it, then?"

"I'm trying very hard to keep up my end of the agreement.  I'm trying to be patient, not rush you.  But it's getting harder all the time."

"No pun intended," Sara snorted.

"Damn, Sara!" Grissom huffed, pretending to be shocked by her sexual innuendo.

"I've really enjoyed these past several weeks, Grissom – taking the time to get to know each other all over again.  We've changed some over the years, and we grew apart in ways.  We needed this time to get comfortable again."

"I know.  That's why I need to leave.  If I go in there, things could get just a little too comfortable, or uncomfortable, depending on your perspective."

"Where's your stoic self-discipline?" she asked, cocking her head slyly.

"I think I left it at work," he countered, leaning in toward her, placing a hand on the door, just over her shoulder.

"Did you think you wouldn't need it?"

"Maybe I was hoping I wouldn't need it," he said lowly, leaning closer to her face.

"That could be taken two ways," she said, raising an eyebrow.  "Does it mean that you didn't think you'd be tempted?  Or does it mean that you hoped that you wouldn't have to resist temptation?"

"Definitely the latter," he breathed, cutting the distance between them yet again.  Sara was often surprised at his ability to get impossibly close, without actually touching.  The anticipation of his touch was just as nerve-wracking as the reality of it.

Sara slowly ran her tongue over her lips, captivating his complete attention.  She watched as his eyes followed the track of her tongue on its languorous journey.  His own tongue pushed slightly between his lips before retreating.

His eyes trekked up from her lips to her eyes, his heart beginning to pound when he saw unmasked desire in them.

"I've got to go," he huffed, pulling back and looking down, then around – anywhere but at her.  He was on a slippery slope, and she wasn't helping him find his footing.  He had to do whatever he could to stop the acceleration of his descent now, before the momentum was too great.

"Don't go," she breathed, stepping forward to increase the magnetic pull between them again.

"Sara," he began, closing his eyes.  "You've got to help me know what to do.  I'm trying to treat you right.  I really am.  I don't want you to think that I'm not interested.  But I also don't want you to think that ... uh ... this ... is all I want with you."

"I know," she said, looking at his lips as she put her hands on his chest, slowly easing them up around his neck.  "It's not all I want either ... but I do want it," she said, pulling him into the most passionate kiss they had shared in a month.

"We've either got to stop, or take this inside," he groaned, putting his forehead to hers to lever away from her lips.  "I know it's dark, but I don't want to do this out on your porch."

Sara handed him her keys, and he pushed the door open for her, closing it behind himself and locking it in one motion.

They didn't make it more than one step inside her apartment before they were drawn to each other again, with Sara reclaiming his lips and draping her arms yet again around his neck, holding him to her.

Sara was surprised at his strength as he wrapped his arms around her, bringing her body flush with his.  He left one hand firmly between her shoulders, but allowed the other to meander around her back, taking in the contours of her body.

She could feel him begin to tremble as his hand slid down to her backside, mapping its curvature in his mind.  Content that he'd memorized its exact topography, he instinctively pulled in on one of the fleshy mounds, pressing himself against her, drawing low breathy groans from both of them.

"You're going to have to let me know what you want, how much ... or how little," he whispered, pulling back slightly to look at her.  "If you want to stop, say so.  Please don't expect me to pick up subtle clues.  I don't want you to think I'm pushing you into anything you aren't ready for or don't want to do."

Sara agreed, almost impatiently, anxious to renew her contact with his lips.

Her efficiency apartment was small, but it had its advantages, in that it wasn't more than a few steps to the bed.  On the mornings when she returned home from work exhausted, she'd appreciated that.  Tonight she appreciated it for a completely different reason, as she pulled him backwards, until they were at the edge of the mattress, and he slowly lowered them down.

Their passion, so long restrained, found its freedom, and rolled them over the bed like thunder, their bodies needing the release of movement until they could find the ultimate release they were seeking.

Even if questioned under oath, Grissom wouldn't have been able to truthfully answer whether he had removed Sara's shirt or if she had;  all he knew was that they were essentially at the same place they had been when Sara had retreated before.  He hesitated before allowing himself to touch her.

Grissom was no more anxious than Sara was.  With every kiss, every touch, every stroke, she felt a little worried that she would once again be hijacked by her subconscious, disappointing him again.  

That she wanted him, she had no doubt.  But she had wanted him before, too, though she admitted to herself that her motives were mixed then.  This time she didn't need him to divert her, she needed him to love her.  

For a man who had based his existence on the intellectual, it was strange for him to realize that he was fading in and out of functional awareness.  Long stretches would go by where the only activity in his mind was the enjoyment of the information being fed to him by his senses.

Then he would become cognizant again for a moment, and he'd be a little surprised that things had changed without him realizing it.  As with Sara's shirt, his own had mysteriously disappeared, without him knowing how or when.  

A few moments later, some part of his mind apprehended that they were both nude.  A fleeting curiosity about when that had happened was the last conscious thought he had for quite some time, as he allowed himself to quit thinking and enjoy feeling for a while.

When Grissom left the relative safety of her face, trailing kisses as he moved down her body, Sara smiled, not only because of the pleasurable feel of his lips on her skin, but because she could tell that he had completely given in to himself and to her.  

For the first time that she had ever witnessed, he was allowing himself to revel in passions and emotions that had frightened him before tonight.  And the most surprising thing about it was that he didn't run, didn't hesitate, didn't fumble.  

She opened her eyes to watch him, finding his abandon to be incredibly arousing.  After so many years of wanting him, having him finally in her life and in her bed made her feel as desirable and sexy as his earlier rebuffs had made her feel unlovable.

"Pin me down," she said huskily, a hint of a smile on her lips and an eyebrow raised.

Grissom pursed his lips, as he had done months before, but instead of walking up to a standing Sara, he moved over her, leaning down to grasp her hands, holding them to the bed to the side of her head.  Slowly he leaned in, staring intently at her and the small bemused smile that played on her lips.

"This is what I wanted to do that day," he said, dropping down to take possession of her lips, then moving across her face and down to her neck.

He had been kneeling, keeping his weight off of her, but he gradually sank down on her, still holding her hands down, their legs intertwined.

"Would you have kissed me?" Sara whispered.  "If I hadn't stopped you, would you have kissed me?"

"Just touching your arm for a second set me on fire, and all I could think about when you looked at me and said 'yes', was that you were telling me you wanted me, too."

"You're right.  That was what I was telling you.  You had said 'no', but I was saying 'yes'."

"At that moment, it didn't even matter to me that we were standing in the middle of the lab, with the door open.  I was going to kiss you, anyway."

"That's what I was afraid of," she said, playfully moving her hands as if she were struggling with him, but smiling.  She stopped moving, looking him directly in the eye:  "I give up."

"So do I," Grissom mumbled between kisses.  "I'm tired of the struggle."

Grissom released her hands, which lifted immediately to his face, just as his went to hers.  They read every contour, every line, as though reading each other in Braille.  Raw emotion swirled around them, between them, and in them – a miasma that blinded them to anything but each other.

Sara realized that he was waiting on her, unwilling to initiate their union on his own.  She could see the question in his eyes, and in answer, she reached down between them, taking him in hand, guiding him to her.

The merging of their bodies, so long anticipated, sent a shock wave through them, mutating them in an instant, sending a ripple through the universe, changing everything.  There was no way to go back – nothing to do but move forward.

* * * * *

"We need to get ready for work if we plan on getting in early, as usual," Sara mumbled into his neck, lazily stroking his still-bare chest.

"Umm," was Grissom's only reply, other than pulling her in tighter to him.

"Can I have the night off?" 

"Sure.  Why, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm exhausted," she laughed.  "Tired and sore."

"Am I supposed to apologize or gloat?" Grissom asked.

"I would say gloat, definitely gloat," she nodded.

"Why don't you throw some things into a bag and spend the day with me, after work?" Grissom asked hopefully.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Nothing really.  Just sleeping and hanging around.  We can go out later, if you want."

"Aren't you tired, too?" 

"Physically, yes.  But in other ways I feel more alive, more invigorated than I have in a long time."

"I know what you mean," Sara said, sitting up.  "I suggest you not work with Catherine tonight," she said, grinning.

"Why not?" he asked, pushing himself up to sit next to her, both of them leaning against the headboard.  "It's her first day back, so I thought I'd keep an eye on her."

"I don't know if you feel like I do, Grissom, but this has changed everything.  She'll be all over you like white on rice, wanting to know what's up with you.  She'll hound you until you tell her."

"You're probably right," he agreed, chuckling.  "I know you're right about one thing – this has changed everything."

"In a good way, I hope," she said, nervously knitting her fingers together in her lap.

"Yes, in a good way," he said gently, reaching around to cup her cheek and partaking in a soft kiss.

"I was afraid ... I mean, I thought that, maybe, well, you know, that maybe you'd feel differently.  That you'd ..."

"Sara, I know that I haven't given you any reason to trust me, but we've been seeing each other several times a week for a month.  Did you really think that once we did this, I'd regret it?  Or that I'd have satisfied that itch, and just forget about you?  What did you think would happen?" he asked, not angry, not hurt, but a little saddened that she wasn't able to enjoy their afterglow as he had, without fear.

"I didn't know what would happen.  I tried not to think about it," she shrugged.  "I guess I'm just a little surprised that you're still here, and that you want me to come over after work.  I had hoped you'd be okay with everything, but I couldn't be sure."

"If you couldn't tell how I feel, then I guess I failed.  I can't always say the words, so I tried to show you," he said, looking away, his warm satisfaction with the night beginning to seem hollow.

"You did, Grissom," she countered quickly, pivoting around to wrap an arm across his chest, leaning her bare body into his.  "You don't have to say the words.  I know.  But I also know that you aren't always comfortable with those feelings."

"The problem wasn't having the feelings, Sara.  The problem was knowing what to do about them."

"You seem to have figured it out," she said, leaning down to kiss his chest.

"I'm working on it," he agreed, pulling her up to his lips.  

* * * * *

"Welcome back, Catherine," Grissom said as he strode into the break room, his CSIs already assembled.

"Thanks.  It's good to be back.  You always think you'd like time off, until you have to take more than a month of it."

"You'd feel differently if it had been a vacation," Nick teased.

"Depends on where I went, and who I went with," she shot back with a salacious grin.

"Catherine and Warrick, let's see, you have a shoot-out at a bar in Henderson.  Wear your vests and carry your sidearms, please.  We can't be sure that everyone who was involved is in custody."

"Okay," Catherine said, taking the assignment slip from Grissom, then shoving it towards Warrick.  "You drive."

"And, Warrick," Grissom added, peering over the top of his glasses like a stern schoolmaster, "keep an eye on Catherine.  Make sure she takes it easy."

"You got it," Warrick nodded solemnly.

"I don't need a babysitter.  I can take care of myself," Catherine demurred.

"Humor me," Grissom said, hoping to divert any disagreement.

"You're the boss," she sighed.

"Yes, I am.  I'm gratified that somebody has finally realized that.  Okay, Sara, you and Nick have a floater in Lake Mead."

"Great," Nick mumbled, looking forlornly towards Sara, whose expression showed she was also imagining the worst.

"It can't be as bad as a floater in the bathroom, can  it, Catherine?" Sara offered.

"You got that right, girl," Catherine said, grimacing at the memory of the young man who'd soaked for days before he'd been found.

As Nick and Sara stood to leave, Nick put a hand on Catherine's shoulder, smiling.  "It's really great to have you back."

"You guys don't know how much it meant to me that you called and came by while I was out," Catherine said, her voice uncharacteristically subdued.

"Hey, we're all family, right?" Sara said.

"Right," Catherine nodded.  "You know, I never really thought about it until I was in the hospital, but I see you guys more hours a day than I see my own daughter.  I didn't realize how much I was going to miss you all."

"Sounds like I got here just in time for a group hug," Greg called from the door.

"The first person with a Y chromosome that hugs me better be ready for a fight," Warrick mumbled.  "But anyone with two X chromosomes, the line forms to the right," he added, with a small grin.

* * * * *

"Catherine, can I talk to you for a minute?" Grissom asked when Warrick had delivered her and the evidence back to the lab.

"Sure," she said tiredly, surprised at the toll that just a few hours of work had taken on her body.

Once they breeched the door to his office, he shut the door and took a seat next to her instead of his desk chair.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine, thanks.  And Warrick must have asked me that a hundred times in the past four hours," she chuckled.

"That's because we're concerned," he added.

"I know.  And I appreciate it," she answered, reaching out to lay a friendly hand on his arm.

Grissom surprised her by laying his own hand on top of hers instead of pulling his arm away, as she had expected.

"Cath, you're the victim of a crime, so I should be talking to you about it right now.  But the investigation is stalled, and we'll probably have to give up on it," he admitted.

"Oh," she said, breathing out heavily.  First Eddie's murder, and now the attack on her.  It seemed to Catherine that justice just wasn't in the cards for her family.

"Here's what it looks like to me, and I think that Brass concurs.  It looks like Walt Braun hired a contract killer named Paonessa to kill you, trying to make sure he was the only heir to Sam Braun's estate."

"Lindsey!" Catherine exclaimed suddenly, realizing that her daughter would probably have been next on the list.

"Yes, she might have been in danger, too, if the killer hadn't been killed himself."

"I read about that in the paper, but didn't know it was connected to my situation."

"I don't have one shred of evidence to back up what I'm about to say, and I know how many times I've told everyone to not get ahead of the evidence," Grissom said in preamble.

"Go ahead.  I want to know what you feel and think.  You don't have to prove it to me," Catherine said encouragingly.

"I think that Sam Braun found out that Paonessa was the one who shot you.  I think that he realized that Paonessa would likely finish the job, then go after Lindsey as well.  I think that he had his son killed as punishment, and that he personally killed Paonessa in retribution."  Grissom stopped, watching her face intently to try to read what she was thinking, what she was feeling.  He could see a myriad of emotions:  fear, relief, anger, and guilt, primarily.

"So, my father the murderer has murdered again.  This time to protect me and Lindsey.  How am I supposed to feel about that?  I mean, it's natural to be protective of your children.  I'd kill for Lindsey, without hesitation.  But I couldn't do it in cold blood, premeditated.  I just don't know what to feel," she admitted.

"It's not your fault.  I don't know what to say, either.  We're all sort of stuck in the middle, too.  We're glad something happened to protect you, but we obviously can't condone murder."

"He seems to think that he's above the law," Catherine lamented.

"Look at it from his perspective – the law wasn't able to protect you this time.  He was.  Power and money make it easy to forget that you're human, too, and have to obey the same laws everyone else does.  All he's learned over the years is that he can get what he wants easier the wrong way than the right way.  I'm not defending Braun, but I'm trying to understand him," Grissom said.

"Why are you telling me all this, Gil?" Catherine asked, furrowing her eyebrows together.

"I just thought you should know.  Didn't want you to feel like you were being kept in the dark," he offered.

"No, that's not it.  'Fess up.  Tell me what this is all about, this whole conversation."

"I wanted you to know that it's not that we're giving up on the investigation.  We just don't have any more evidence."

"We who?  You and Brass?"

"Me and Sara," he corrected.

"Ah.  Sara.  So you were afraid that I'd think that she didn't try her best."

"Cath, let's face it, she tried her best with Eddie, too.  But that didn't make it any easier for you," Grissom said gently.

"And I didn't make it any easier on her," Catherine nodded, realizing that Sara would probably have already been disappointed that she wasn't successful, no matter who the victim was.  But she no doubt felt doubly bad knowing she couldn't close the case of Eddie's murder for Catherine.

"Did she tell you what happened?  After Eddie's investigation, I mean," Catherine asked.

"No.  I guess she didn't have to.  It was pretty obvious by the way you two interacted."

"God, Gil!  Didn't you even talk to her about it?  To help her?"

"She didn't ask for my help," he huffed out defensively.

"Do you need an engraved invitation?" Catherine shot back.

"First of all, not everyone wants other people to root around in their emotional lives, Catherine," Grissom fired back.  "Second, if she had wanted me involved, she'd have asked.  Third, who was I supposed to back when I've got two employees at odds with each other?"

"Two employees?  Employees?!  Gil Grissom, I swear that you've got to be the most frustrating man ...  What did I tell you before?  We're not a collection of employees.  We're a family.  Sometimes there are family squabbles.  If they're no big deal, no one else has to get involved.  But if people are hurting, and they're people you care about, how can you just stand back and watch?"

"I guess I figured it was none of my business," he attempted.

"Bullshit," she countered.

"Maybe I didn't know what to do.  Like I said, I didn't know who to back."

"You didn't have to back anybody, Gil!  You could have just been a supportive friend to me, and a, well, whatever you are to her," Catherine sputtered in frustration.

"I'm trying now, Cath," he said, his eyes squinted as though it was an effort to say the words.

"Okay.  I see that.  I'm not jumping you.  Well, maybe I am.  But it's just because I want more for you.  You know that, right?"

"If you say so," he shrugged, not sure what to say.  He certainly didn't feel comfortable telling her that he had more now.

"Gil, this could be hard on Sara, if she's looking at this the same way you did.  Don't leave her alone to handle this.  I plan on talking to her, to make sure she knows I don't blame her for the lack of evidence.  But she needs to know that you're there for her, and not just as a supervisor."

"She knows that," he said cryptically.

"Oh?" Catherine asked, cocking her head and eyeing him suspiciously.

"We've been trying to work things out," he said gingerly.

"Which things?  How out?" Catherine prodded, her excitement barely contained.

"Everything.  All the way out," he answered.

"All the way?" Catherine asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Um, yeah," he nodded, blushing slightly at the connotation.

"Well, good for you!" she said with a grin.

"Yeah, good for me, but I'm not sure about Sara," he added with a tinge of sadness.

"What do you mean, Gil?" Catherine asked, leaning forward in concern.

"There was this guy, this deputy, that was sweet on her.  They went out a couple of times while you were in the hospital."

"You're not jealous, are you?  I mean, it's not like you're engaged or married.  You can both date other people.  Probably should, just to make sure this is what you want."

"I know, I know.  Yeah, I guess I was jealous, but that's not what I mean.  I just wonder if he wouldn't be better for her, in the long run.  He's young and good looking, and he seems to think the world of her."  After a moment of silence, Grissom added, "He makes her laugh."

"Oh, Gil!" Catherine said, leaning further forward to take him into a brief hug.  "You can make her laugh, too.  Give yourself a chance."

"All I ever seem to do is make her cry," he said guiltily.

"That's the past.  She's obviously put that where it belongs – behind her.  You need to do the same thing.  Just remember that she had that choice in front of her – this deputy guy or you – and she chose you.  Doesn't that tell you something?"

"That she's not as smart as I thought she was?" he asked glumly.

"Well, that might be the obvious answer," Catherine laughed, lightly slapping him across the upper arm.  "But there might be another answer.  Work on it, Einstein, and you might figure it out."

"Catherine, remember the Lurie case?" Grissom asked uncomfortably.

"How could I forgot?" she said, exhaling as she shook her head.

"That girl, Debbie, looked so much like Sara," he said, admitting it aloud for the first time.

"Yeah, I know.  It was spooky.  But what's that got to do with anything?"

"And Lurie was a work-obsessed, middle-aged man who had never had a serious relationship before," Grissom added.

"Yeah," Catherine drew out, looking at him cautiously.

"She only wanted him for what he represented.  Once she got him, she didn't want him anymore.  Just another guy."

"Sara's not like that," Catherine warned.

"Catherine, let's be brutally honest.  What else could it be?  What could she possibly want with me?  I've got nothing to offer."

"I don't know, Gil," Catherine answered with exasperation.  "Everyone sees what they see.  I love you to death, but I wouldn't want to be in a relationship with you.  No offense."

"None taken.  But that's my point," he said.

"But Sara obviously sees you differently.  This isn't some summer fling that just popped into her head one day.  She knows you, as much as anyone does, that is.  And she's attracted to you."

"Maybe.  But why?"

"I don't know!  Maybe because you're a decent guy in a world where that seems to be becoming increasingly rare.  Maybe because you're nice looking, without being obnoxiously handsome.  Maybe because you two share a similar outlook on work.  She wouldn't have to worry about you being jealous of the job.  Hell, I don't know.  But I do know that you two seem like two peas in a pod, so it's not surprising that you'd be attracted to each other."

"Catherine, I can't do this if it's going to just be a fling.  I don't have anything against flings, as long as both go into it expecting that.  But I could really care about her, you know?"

"I know, sweetie," Catherine nodded, a sad smile on her face.  "You already do."

"I'm already in over my head," Grissom exhaled.

"So, might as well make the best of it," Catherine chirped happily, standing and pulling him up into a hug.

"Tell me what to do," Grissom whispered into the hair over her ear, his eyes closing against the fear rising in him.

"Just be yourself, Gil," she said, separating them.  "You're the one she wants, so just be you.  You're a good guy.  Don't forget that."  

* * * * *

"Hey, stranger," Sara said as she entered the locker room.  Grissom was the only one in the room, tucked partially behind an opened locker door.

"Hey," he said, giving her a half-smile before turning back to the locker.

"Um, Grissom.  I was wondering," Sara began as she approached him, scanning the room again to ensure that they were indeed alone.  "Are you mad at me?"

"No!" he answered, inadvertently slamming the locker door to punctuate his words.  "Why would you think that?" he asked.

"Well, it's just that we haven't really seen each other or even really talked in several days," she answered unevenly, the emotion evident in her voice.  "I just thought maybe I said or did something wrong.  If I did, I'm sorry.  If you'll tell me what it was, I won't do it again," she offered.

Grissom closed his eyes and leaned forward, his momentum carrying him the inch or so towards the locker, letting his forehead clang into it noisily.  

_I'm already screwing up.  I should have known it wouldn't last long.  _

He pulled himself back and turned to her, a wistful smile trying to balance the sadness in his eyes.

"I'm not mad, Sara.  I've just been busy, and didn't realize so many days have gone by.  I didn't mean for it to look like I'm ignoring you."

"I thought maybe you'd thought about it and regretted making love," she said softly, in case their voices carried.

"No," he said, reaching out to stroke her arm, surprised that even that simple contact still excited him, considering he'd experienced much more contact with her.

"We can back off, if that's what you want," she offered hesitantly.  "I'm not trying to push you into anything you don't want to do."

"No, Sara.  That's not it.  Come on, let's get out of here.  I'd rather talk about this someplace else."

"Is there a 'this' to talk about?" she asked nervously.

"Your house or mine?" he asked, rather than answer her.

"Yours," she answered, wanting to ensure that she had a way to escape if it became unpleasant.

"I'll see you in a few minutes," Grissom said, reaching up to touch her face for a moment before he turned to leave.

Though he'd said nothing ominous, Sara found herself becoming more anxious with each moment.  

_I knew it was too good to be true.  He went too far, and now he needs to pull back, but at least he's trying to be nice about it.  The least I can do is be mature about it.  It was just one of those things.  We got carried away.  It happens.  Regroup and move on._

Sara closed the locker door and leaned into it, pressing her forehead into the cool metal, her internal conversation going full force, trying to prepare her for the worst.

"Sara?" Catherine asked, coming up behind her silently.  

Sara startled and turned to look at Catherine with an expression somewhere between shock and guilt.

"You okay?" 

"Yeah.  Just tired," Sara answered, smiling weakly.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" Catherine asked.

"Um, sure," Sara answered.

"I just wanted to tell you that I really appreciate all that you did for me.  I mean everything, from saving my life in the first place to working so hard to try to solve the case."

"Cath, I'm sorry I didn't get the guy.  I tried.  I really did," Sara said, her voice quivering from the pent-up emotion over Grissom, added to her regret over both Eddie's murder and Catherine's shooting.

"You would have gotten him if he hadn't been killed," Catherine said, nodding encouragingly.

"You know about all that?" Sara asked.

"Yeah.  Grissom told me.  He said that the case was stalled, so he didn't think it would matter that he told me."

"Oh.  Well, still, I'm glad it's over, at least.  Until he was killed, we couldn't be sure he wouldn't try again."

"Oh, he would have.  His type don't ever stop.  He would have killed me eventually."

"If he hadn't been murdered," Sara finished.

"Yeah.  Grissom says he thinks that Sam Braun murdered the hit man.  You think that, too?"

"I don't know, Catherine.  There's no evidence," Sara said cagily.

"I'm not talking about what you know, Sara.  I'm talking about what you think, what you feel."

"Okay.  I think Grissom's probably right.  Every time we talked to your, uh, to Braun he was evasive.  He was controlled, but he struck me as a man who's barely holding in his anger.  Of course, that's all just my impression.  I'm no psychologist."

"You do all right," Catherine said.  "You know who he is to me?"

"Yeah.  Grissom told me.  It was necessary for the case," Sara added in his defense.

Catherine snorted a quick laugh.  "Seems like Grissom's gone from being Mr. Non-communicative to Chatty Cathy lately."

Sara tilted her head in question.

"He sort of hinted that you two were getting along better, if you catch my drift," Catherine said in uncharacteristic ambiguity.  She normally said exactly what she meant, whenever possible, but felt that in this case, the two of them had spent so long in an ambiguous relationship that ambiguity was more fitting.

"Oh," Sara said, surprised, but not elaborating.

"Hmm.  I would have expected maybe an embarrassed smile.  Maybe a blush and averted eyes.  But just an 'oh' concerns me.  Is everything all right?" Catherine asked, her tone taking on the same warm, friendly support that Sara recognized from the day Cath had spent with her after her breakup with Hank.

"To me honest, I don't know," Sara said, a shy smile briefly pulling at her lips.  "I'm supposed to meet him to talk about it.  This isn't a good sign," she said heavily.

"Don't worry, honey, I'm sure it's nothing bad," Catherine said, putting a hand on Sara's shoulder.  "I think, and this is just a hunch, but I think he just wants to make sure you're happy before it goes any further.  He's feeling a little shaky right now.  I shouldn't tell you this, but I will anyway.  He mentioned some guy that you'd dated.  He feels under-qualified, compared to this guy."

"It was just a couple of meals," Sara said.  "It wasn't some big romantic attachment."

"It doesn't matter.  Apparently, Gil saw this guy make you laugh.  He wants you to be happy.  Take it as a compliment."

"It's ridiculous, that's what it is," Sara said, exasperated.

"Male ego.  There's no explaining it," Catherine shrugged.  "It makes them think they're invincible when they're not, and it cuts them off at the knees when there's no reason for it."

"What should I do?" Sara asked.

"Why does everyone suddenly think I have all the answers?  I was divorced, remember?  And haven't had another serious relationship since then," Catherine said chuckling to take the sting out of the admission.

"Yeah, but you know him.  You've been friends a long time," Sara said.

"Just hang in there.  You may have to reassure him every two minutes that he's worth the trouble.  Sooner or later he'll get over it.  I don't want to be indelicate here," Catherine said, leaning closer to Sara, who matched her movement.  "But you're going to have to walk a fine line with sex."

"Huh?" Sara asked, her face scrunched up in confusion.  Not only that, but discussing her and Grissom's sex life with Catherine was high on her list of things she didn't want to ever do.

"Male ego again.  You have to make him feel like you desire him, like you find him sexy and attractive, but on the other hand, he can't think that's all that important to you.  After all, he is almost 50.  If he thinks that's a critical part of the relationship, that could scare him as well.  He might be afraid that he can't keep you satisfied."

"Oh, I so do not want to have this conversation," Sara mumbled, appreciative of Catherine's efforts, but embarrassed.

"You don't have to have it with me, but be prepared to have it sooner or later with Gil," Catherine warned.

"I've got to go.  He's waiting for me," Sara said, glad she had a ready-made excuse for escape.

"Just relax.  He cares about you," Catherine said, patting her shoulder before removing her hand.

"Good," Sara said stiffly, not sure how to respond.  "Uh, thanks, Cath."

"Go get 'em, tiger!" she said, giving Sara a thumbs up like she was a kid at her first soccer tournament.

Sara waited until she turned to roll her eyes, not wanting to be rude, and taking into account that Catherine was a mother, so that sort of encouragement was probably natural for her.

_Please, God, tell me this was the worst this day will get.  Having Catherine give me a pep talk and coaching me on my sex life is just too humiliating.  And I'd be willing to bet that she did the same thing with Grissom.  I wonder what advice she gave him?_

* * * * *

He had kissed her at the door, and led her by the hand to the kitchen, where he set two cups of fresh coffee in front of them as Sara took a seat at the breakfast bar.

If he was getting ready to pull back, Sara had to admit that he was being awfully sweet about it.  It almost took the sting out of it.

"Did you get caught in traffic?" he asked, since she had arrived a good 20 minutes after he did.

"No.  I got caught by Catherine," she countered.

"Oh.  Then I should probably count myself lucky that it wasn't longer," he said, smiling.

"She was being nice, for a change," Sara said.  "I didn't mean that to sound so harsh.  It's just that she's been sort of hard to deal with for a while.  Well, until the shooting.  That sort of put it all into perspective for both of us, I guess."

"I think she knows that.  Catherine can be volatile, but at least you always know where you stand with her," Grissom said, following his words with a sip of his coffee.

"Unlike you," Sara ventured.  "Where do I stand, Grissom?  I can't really tell, and I really need to know."

"You're wherever you want to be," he said cryptically, reaching out to take her free hand into his.

"This is where I want to be," she answered softly, standing up from her barstool to lean into him, running her arms over his shoulders, entwining him.

Grissom's arms instinctively wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer to him.  "I'm sorry I didn't call for a few days.  I guess I'm just not used to having someone who'd want me to."

"Try again," she said, nuzzling his ear.  "That one doesn't even make logical sense."

"Okay.  Well – ummmm, that feels good – I was thinking."

"That sounds more like you," she said, moving her kisses from under his ear, around his neck, and up the other side to torment him on the other side.

"I was thinking that maybe you should rethink all of this," he admitted, closing his eyes to soak in the sensations of having the woman he'd dreamt about for years nibbling on his earlobe.

"Why?" she asked almost breathlessly, kissing a path across his face, only briefly brushing his lips.

"I'm probably not the best catch you could make," he said, his voice starting to become breathy.

"Hmm.  Are you sure?" she asked, moving back to his lips, not allowing him to answer right away as she kissed them, then licked them lightly.

"Pretty sure," he admitted, his voice becoming rough and low, his hands starting to move over her back as he stood, allowing Sara to stand up straight instead of leaning over him.

"Do you have any evidence to support that?" she asked, bringing her own hands down to caress his chest as she moved back down to his neck.

"If I did, I can't remember what it was now.  I can't even think," he said breathlessly, grasping the sides of her head to bring her head back level with his lips.

"Good.  Don't think.  Feel," she encouraged, lightly licking her lips, inviting him to do the same.

"Why, Sara?  Why me?" he asked, feeling himself respond to her, and fighting the naive embarrassment of her reaching down to feel it, too.

"Please, Grissom," she moaned.  "Please just shut up, and make love to me.  Show me what you have such a hard time telling me."

Grissom had not allowed himself to hope that the conversation would turn out like this, having envisioned several different scenarios, but none of them ending in his bed, the comforter and sheets kicked to the foot, barely clinging to the edge.

Making love in the light of day can be embarrassing to those unaccustomed to being seen nude, especially those who don't feel they are in the best shape of their lives.  But that drawback was quickly negated by the positive, which was being able to see her face as he joined with her.

She gasped slightly, then smiled, her eyes closed at first.  When she opened them, Grissom felt like he could fall into their dark depths.  All he wanted to do was watch her eyes as he moved in her.

He was torn between watching her and wanting to kiss her, and alternated between the two for a while, until the passion consumed them both and their kisses became almost desperate, matching the intensity of their movements.

He lifted his head to watch her intently as he felt her begin her climax, an almost animalistic growl emanating from her as he pushed her over the edge, her head pushed back into the pillow and her face a grimace of pleasure.

"I can't lose you," he said under his breath, more to himself than to her as he slowed to allow her to recover.

Sara relaxed and pulled him back down into her lips, urging him to resume his pace by her own movements.

Soon he could tell that she was close again, by her ragged breathing.  He threw all he had into his task, straining to satisfy her, desperate to believe that he could.

Her panting became whimpers, which became squeals that intensified as he pushed himself harder and harder.  

_I can't lose you.  I can't lose you._  It became a mantra that drove him.

Sara felt herself begin the slide into ecstasy and reached down, pulling desperately on his backside, willing him to let go and follow her.  She smiled as she felt his movements become jerky, then almost spasmodic as he groaned loudly, his cries of delight mingling with hers, just like their bodies commingled.

He rolled to his side to take his weight off of her, pulling her over to rest on his arm.  Sara ran a finger lazily around his chest as he pushed the sweat-curled hair from her face.

"I can't lose you," she said to him.

Grissom looked at her, unable to speak.  He realized she'd probably heard him, but he also hoped that she meant it from the depths of her own heart.

* * * * *

"Mugs!" Sam Braun said as she entered his office.  He directed her to a soft leather couch and offered her a drink, which she gratefully accepted.

"How ya feeling, baby?" he asked, a grin across his face.  It was so good to see her up and around, looking like her old self instead of the pale, lifeless creature he'd that tore at his heart in the ICU.

"Much better, Sam.  Thanks.  I still get tired and winded kind of easily, but I'm getting stronger every day," she answered, taking a long pull on the tumbler of scotch.

"I'm so happy to hear that.  I was worried sick while you were in the hospital," he admitted, the smile never leaving his face, but a wave of pain crossing his sad eyes.

"Sam.  We've got to talk," she said heavily, setting down her drink.

"Okay," he said, picking up his own.

"The CSIs who investigated my shooting say that they think it was a hit man named Paonessa who pulled the trigger."

"That's what they told me," he said.

"Don't act like you don't know," she said impatiently.

"So I know," he said, shrugging.

"They said that Walt hired the guy.  Is that true?"

"That's what I hear."

"Stop it!  Stop bullshitting me, Sam!  You act like you want us to have a closer relationship, but you're not being honest with me."

"Okay.  Walt ordered the hit," Sam exhaled into his scotch, taking a long swig.

"And who killed Walt?" Catherine asked, her eyes boring into his.

"Some worthless piece of shit that was in prison with him," Braun answered.

"For just no reason?  The timing seems a little convenient, doesn't it?"

"No.  He had 50,000 reasons," Braun said.

"He's a lifer.  Never getting out.  What could he do with $50,000?" Catherine asked, trying not to react to Braun's revelation, wanting to keep him talking.

"He's got a wife and kid.  They got the money.  He's apparently got a heart of gold," Braun said acidly.

"Just because he's a murderer doesn't mean he doesn't love his family," Catherine said, baiting him.

"Yeah, well.  I guess that's true."

"Sam, did you pony up the 50 grand?  Did you have your own son killed?  I've got to know," she said, leaning forward.

"He killed his own brother.  He was trying to kill you.  We both know he wouldn't have stopped there.  Next it would have been Lindsey.  He had to be stopped."

"Paonessa was killed.  Walt failed.  Why did you have him killed?"

"He wouldn't have stopped.  If it wasn't Paonessa, it would have been someone else.  He made a new set of friends in prison, most of which could have arranged the killings he wanted.  That boy was blinded by money.  That's all he could think about.  The fact that he was killing his own kin didn't mean a thing to him."

"But you had your own son killed!" Catherine exclaimed.

"To protect my daughter and my granddaughter!  I got rid of one bad seed to protect two good ones.  Don't think this was easy for me, Mugs.  You might not believe it, but I loved that boy.  My mistake was loving the rest of you more, but that doesn't mean I didn't love him," he said, his eyes tearing up.

"How am I supposed to feel, Sam?  My father kills my brother to keep him from killing me.  This is just all too much.  And this is the family you want me to accept, to bring my daughter into!"

"Catherine, I never claimed to be a good man.  But I do love you, and now that I've gotten a chance to spend time with Lindsey, I love her, too."

"You loved Walt, and you killed him.  Will you get mad at us, and kill us, too?"

"God, no!  I didn't have him killed because I was mad!  I've been mad and disappointed in that boy for years, but I didn't do a thing to him!  But, when he put you and Lindsey in danger, that was just too much.  A man like that doesn't deserve to live, in my book."

"Okay, Sam," Catherine said, waving her hands defensively in front of her.  "I really can't process all of that right now.  It's just a little heavy to have anyone killed for you, much less your own brother.  I can't deal with it."

"You asked," he shrugged.

"I know.  I just had to know.  What about the shooter?  Who killed him?"

"He shot my only daughter, the only good that's ever come from me," Sam said in answer.

"Yeah, but who killed him?  Who did your dirty work that time?"

"I would have killed Walt myself if he hadn't been in prison.  I don't need anyone to do my dirty work.  They were scum, and they deserved what they got," he said, his voice rising.

"So, I take it you shot the dude?" Catherine asked.

"He deserved it," Braun said.

"Can't you just answer the fucking question?" Catherine snapped, surprising Braun.

"Okay, I shot him.  Right between his eyes.  He shot you, and there was no guarantee that he wouldn't complete the contract, even if Walt was dead.  He said he had a reputation to uphold.  Well, so do I.  Don't fuck with what's mine," Braun growled.

"I don't belong to you!  I'm not one of your possessions!"

"That's not what I mean, Mugs," Braun said, trying to be conciliatory.  

"Yes, it is.  You think of us as yours, just like your ranch, and your casino, and your money!"

"That's not true!  I loved you before I had two dimes to rub together!  I've always loved you!  You may not believe this, but I loved your mother, too."

"You had a damned funny way of showing it!"

"Did she tell you that?  If she didn't, maybe you better ask her before you go blaming me for everything!  I didn't want her to run off to Montana.  You might be surprised to find out that your mother is the one that rejected me, not the other way around!"

"Maybe she saw something in you that scared her," Catherine said accusingly.

"I'm not going to argue about the past," Braun said, getting up to pour himself another drink.  "No matter how you want to try to twist it around, these two piss-poor excuses for human beings tried to kill my family.  What kind of man would I be if I stood by and watched that?"

"A law-abiding man?  There were other ways to stop it.  You could have tipped off the cops."

"Humph!  The cops.  Were they going to watch you every minute?  Were they going to make it so that neither of them could ever hurt you again?  No.  These weren't nuns I was dealing with.  They were vermin and deserved to be exterminated.  The world can be a dangerous place, Catherine."

"I know.  I deal with it every day," she snapped.

"Exactly.  Well, as long as I have the power to protect you two, I will.  My point was made.  There's not a soul in Las Vegas who would harm a hair on either of your heads.  They know that I'm fully committed to your safety."

"Great.  I'm a criminalist.  I work in law enforcement.  My father kills people.  That does a lot for my credibility.  What am I supposed to do if I'm questioned about it in court?"

"Have you ever witnessed me kill anybody?" he asked.

"Of course not!"

"You can't testify to what you haven't seen," he shrugged.

"I could tell them you told me."

"Hearsay," he countered.  "Inadmissible."

"You a lawyer now, too?" she asked.

"You can't be in my business and not be a little familiar with the law."

"Yeah, it comes in handy while you're breaking it," she said, slamming down her drink and standing.

"You haven't cashed the check I sent you," Braun said, causing her to turn back towards him.

"Blood money?"

"No.  Just a gift.  You've had to work too much to afford to take care of your daughter.  I admire that, but there's no reason why I shouldn't help.  That way, you can spend more time with her.  Believe me, I can tell you that's important.  I miss not being able to have more time with you when you were little," he said wistfully.

"I can get by," Catherine said, red rising up her neck to claim her cheeks.

"Yeah, I heard that from your mother, too.  And I know that you can.  I'm not saying you need my help.  I'm just an old man who wants to spend some of his money on the people who're important to him."

"Sam, it would look bad if I cashed it," she said, shaking her head.

"It's your money anyway, or at least it will be.  You and Lindsey are my last heirs.  Everything will be yours, and probably before too very long."

"You're as strong as a mule," Catherine snorted.

"I'm also almost 70 years old.  Got a whole lot more miles behind me than ahead of me."

"I guess it doesn't really matter.  It's not against the law for a father to give his daughter money," Catherine mused.  "But it just doesn't feel right, after everything that's happened."

"Then just put it in the bank.  You don't have to spend any of it yet.  Think on it.  I just want your life to start getting easier.  It doesn't have to be as hard as it's been, Mugs.  If you could make Lindsey's life easier, wouldn't you do it?"

"Yes, of course," she whispered.

"Well, now you can," he said, shrugging.  "Don't do it for me.  Don't even do it for yourself, if you don't want to.  But do it for Lindsey.  She shouldn't have to do without because I'm not the man you want me to be.  Blood's thicker than water.  It's just money.  You're blood."

* * * * *

"Does blood make family?  I never even knew I had two half-brothers until less than a year ago.  They were blood.  But were they family?  No."

Warrick nodded, cupping his large hands around a glass of beer.  He'd gotten a call from Catherine, asking him to meet her.  There was something in her voice that told him it wasn't to socialize.

"What do I do?  Even if I don't cash it, when he dies, we inherit all of it anyway.  I can't very well deny Lindsey her inheritance just because I don't like the man my father has become."

"That's a point," Warrick agreed.

"Why did he have to do this?" Catherine asked, dropping her head into her hands, elbows propped on the table.

"Maybe it's just like he said.  Maybe he just wants to share with the people he cares about."

"If he really cared about me – about me, the real me – he wouldn't have done put me in this position, and he damn sure wouldn't have killed Walt.  He would know how I'd feel.  He only cares about me as a concept:  his daughter.  The operative word there is 'his'."

"Even if that's how the money was offered, that doesn't mean that's how you have to take it.  Take a little of it and pay off your creditors.  They're as dangerous to you as Braun's reputation is."

Catherine cocked her head, her eyes questioning.

"Remember that I processed your house.  Let's just say that some low-life accuses you of some sort of impropriety.  With you being behind on your bills, maybe even in danger of losing your house, the defense attorney would be all over you, accusing you of selling out his poor client to pay your bills."

"So I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't," Catherine breathed out, tipping her beer.

"Hey, if you're going to be accused of the same thing, with or without the money, why not take it?  That doesn't mean you have to agree to accept him into your family."

"That seems wrong, too.  Like I'm just taking advantage of him," she sighed.

"Look, Cath, all the options suck one way or the other.  So quit thinking about how they'll affect you, because they're all bad.  Think of how they'll affect Linds."  

"Take the money and run," Catherine sang.

"Don't run too far," Warrick said, reaching across to lay his hand over hers for a moment, before pulling away.

"Just a figure of speech.  I'm not going to let my father's reputation drive me out of my home and my job."

"Good.  I'm glad to hear that," Warrick said, his usually furrowed brow relaxing with his smile.

* * * * *

"It's getting late.  I better go," Sara said, disappointment dripping from each word.  Grissom was reclining on the couch, with her lying more on him than next to him, both reading the same article in the journal that he held over both of them.

"I'll miss you," he said, already feeling the separation as she rose from his chest.

"We'll see each other in about two hours," she laughed.

"Will you come back after work?" he asked.

"If you want me to," she answered.

"Of course I want you to.  Why wouldn't I?" he asked, following her into the bedroom, where she was taking off the large t-shirt he'd lent her, gathering her own clothes.

"Grissom, I'm not going anywhere.  You don't have to see me 24/7 to keep me happy.  I know you like your private time.  That's cool with me.  I just thought that after spending all night and all day together, you might want a little alone time."

"I've been alone.  I've been with you.  I prefer the latter," he said, pulling her into a kiss.

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," she said with a wink.

"Can't get much fonder," he admitted, holding her face in his hands.

"Just say it," she urged softly into his ear.

"I ... care," he said next to her own ear.

"Close enough," she said, kissing him before whirling away to finish dressing.  

"What about you?" he asked, following her trek to the bathroom, where she stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair.  He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed at his chest.

"What about me?" she asked teasingly.

Grissom walked up behind her, taking the brush from her hand.  He began to stroke at the hair on the back of her head as he made eye contact in the mirror.

"Just say it," he parroted, one side of his lips pulled into a challenging smile.

"I ... care, too," she said, grinning.

"Close enough," he said, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face into her hair, kissing her as he turned her around, finally reaching her lips.

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